Avarice
by Ser.REnity
Summary: He is not the monster anymore, only the devil among devils. They all have a place in hell now.
1. Devil, Puppet, Hypocrite

**Hey, this is Bathtub. Not really, but hey. **

**I decided to finally post this story (which I will definitely regret because I am not finished yet. There will be no constant uploads, but long, long chapters that jump at you once in awhile. **

**So. I am not a big fan of large Author's Notes or whatever you kids call it these days. But there are a few things to add before I/you/we all can get started. First off: I noticed, after reading many fanfictions out there, that my display of the characters differs from most writers'. I would love your comments on how you see it. (Part of that could be the fact I never saw Wesker as a rapist, which seems to be a common thing). **

**This takes place after RE5 and it will not, in any way, feature characters or incidents included in RE6. (Nope, no Jake action here.) It will feature a variety of characters and some OCs, though I do not place them in the main-protagonist roles. Pairings are there only if you want to see them- they are not intended by me, though. **

**Rating will be T, unless somebody thinks differently (I tend to write gore. Lots of it. And disturbing thoughts, so tell me if it should somehow be changed.)**

**Well yeah. Here goes nothing. (I always feel like releasing an animal into the wild, wild world when publishing a story.)**

**Your thoughts and comments are highly appreciated, but I mostly hope you enjoy the read.**

* * *

**Part I: The Dead**

**I. Devil, Puppet, Hypocrite**

"My name is Albert Wesker. Several years ago I began to establish a world of compelling perfection, a vision of a world only those who were worthy should have been granted access to. It lies only within the power of a god to choose a path for the feeble humanity infesting this planet. However, as time went by humans of this obnoxious race concluded they had to have rights as well, among all other privileges... in fact, they challenged a superior being like me, trying to preserve their delusional state of peace, bringing war upon the country they _saved..._

I died. Their self-righteousness burned like a beacon of hell, raining down upon me and etching through my skin, my flesh, my bones, searching for a soul to purify.

It failed miserably."

His eyes seemed to get used to burn due to the constant confrontation with a light shining ever so bright. He sighed softly as the sentiment again washed over him. It was a sight painful to look at for him and even more painful were the memories it brought back.

The parts of his past he liked to repress- for it held no valuable information- were obliterating already. Those were the parts with the feelings, the parts with a person he failed to see in himself anymore.

He felt uncomfortable, but that wasn't the problem at all. It was the fact an emotion found a way to sneak into his body, a way to mess him up and ravage through his rational thinking.

For such a long time he had repressed these signs of humanity slowing his mind down, that now it felt unreal to feel.

Thinking about his situation he only felt indifference, though. The death he had passed through had left him numb and vulnerable to the dreams he hated so much.

When he had woken up, the memories had been even more confusing, crowding so desperately he still didn't know what was indeed a fragment of his past.

Shifting his body sent a shiver down his spine, creeping into his wounded body infested by the restless soul he now had acquired. And there it was again, the insecurity, the reconciliation with the feeling of fear. Like the tangled webs of a spider connected to his innermost nerve centre it spread and feasted on his reaction. _Descended from heaven... abandon hope, all ye who live through the most thriven of all dreams._

There was a conscience so much darker, so much deeper than his ruling over his thoughts, impossible for him to grasp or exterminate. He didn't know what it was he sensed, he was at a loss. Every word he tried to apply on the matter, like a piece of a puzzle he didn't know where to put, seemed too flimsy, too frail for the demon in his own body.

Drifting away into another blurry vision, he tried to relax. Only the sedatives helped him regain part of his sanity, now he couldn't even breathe constantly. It was only when the intoxication took over he felt ready to take on the thoughts of his own.

The sedatives took effect only a few moments after the needle punctured his skin, slowly spreading inside him like the quickest disease. First he had started to struggle at this point, for he had always fought against such measures. Now he kept still and quiet, the perfect patient, already blinded by the comfort of sweet oblivion. The hated feeling rose inside him urgently, a call for help alongside all pleasure. The weakness flooded through him like an armageddon storm.

How unfortunate, he thought, coughing, gasping for air, as he silently surrendered. He admitted defeat because there was no other way to ease the pain. Because it felt good to let go.

_It feels... how intriguing._

He had not understood at first, his mind numb and vulnerable to a thought ever so soft. But then the memories returned it was easy to deduct... it was back.

It had frightened him to sense the person he had disposed of again; weak, feeling, _human_. That wasn't how it was supposed to be... by now, he should be a god already, in a world too perfect for creatures other than him.

And then he remembered all of it, every humiliating minute of his fall. The pain, the screaming, the heat and above all, the rage... but what about now, he wondered. Now there was nothing left of this deep ambition, only the slight annoyance regarding the people responsible for it. But it was only a serene emotion, nothing compared to what had been before. It seemed as if the lava had extinguished his feebly burning anger to show him he was nothing.

'No', he thought sneeringly to himself, 'not only I, but my ideals, dreams, ambitions were nothing in the end.' The power of a god, a virus to control the world and a vision of perfection... everything smashed to pieces by overconfident fools. And they weren't even fools worthy of being called equal, they were mere humans.

The woman in red had told him, in her professional, cold voice, she had told him that his revival was a mistake, that he wasn't meant to be alive anymore. And among those words had always lurked the reproach of the scared. 'How could you? What is wrong with you?' and, of course, 'Why do you live?'

Her eyes could never deny her true feelings. The selfish fear and the fearful selfishness... how he grew tired of it after all these years. However, there was sense in her visits.

She explained the past time to him, the time he had skipped and never missed. Three years, she had said, he had been dead for over three years and nothing had changed.

It was obviously a lie, becoming apparent in her changes. Even with his blurry vision and drugged mind he had seen her lack of resolve. The war in the country had left her spineless and feeble. He smirked briefly. A mistake, so early in the new game he was going to play. The woman in red would be his to control again, a servant most appropriate for now. A day would come to be more demanding. At the present time he didn't want to focus on anything, as long as the drugs silenced the voices screaming in his head. For a long time they had kept quiet, he remembered, only to return in this moment of vulnerability.  
His body shivered violently as the cold air around him finally reached his exposed skin. During the process of renewal the pain had become unbearable, wormlike sinews had crawled through burnt flesh and what was created was a body similar to the one he lived with all those years. Blood was gushing out of his veins, pouring out onto the table, burning his bruised organs with its warmth. Those hypocrites had filled his body with the liquid fire he despised so much, forced his worn lung to function and his bones to bend and break. A cage of arteries and flesh and gore was now put around him. And then... they dared to interfere with his plans and removed it all, all the strength and power. He remembered the silenced cry of rage and agony which never left his imagination, never being revealed to the world; his pain racking, his mind racing and the life flowing back into him.

He looked the same way, thought the same way, but now he _felt_... and that changed it all, much to his annoyance.  
His mind drowned in the drugs, burying the stroke of hate and anger rising inside of him.

'So close... I was so close to perfection...', he muttered, resting his head on the metal ground he was unable to identify right now.

All there was were the voices and the light burning too bright for this world not worth dying for.

* * *

Ada looked at him with mild surprise. All those years on the run, the sleepless nights haunted by this particular monster... and here it was and she was not afraid. Since her deed of treason she had been running from this man and a sudden death seemed too casual for someone like him. A nightmarish fiend like him couldn't just disappear... and she was right again. He had found her, trapped in the Organization's bigger plan. It had been their sick sense of humor to send her to Africa. The heads knew her fears and every little moment of her past she valued turned into a threat in their hands. However, she obeyed.

They gave her life, no matter how deceitful they were. Confidence was no renewable energy in her heart, it was rare since the world had come crashing down. Bioterrorism hadn't died with Wesker, even though the B.S.A.A. seemed to believe so. Their actions got less and less frequent; completely vanishing after an assault on their headquarters left them with a high number of casualties. A reign of terror was inevitable- or so Ada had thought. Instead, all organizations involved had hesitated to launch an assault on the american government. They waited, Ada had realized, waited for an appropriate time and place to cause the most promising effect.

Peace didn't fill their wallets, it didn't pay their rent and of course it did not secure their homes. War was lucrative for the heads and those under their control. War was money.

Wesker moved his lips as if he was trying to say something, but no sound was audible. The treatment he went through wasn't yet finished; it needed him to stay under drug influence the whole time. Ada smiled bitterly. Origin, the serum that they had used for him, was able to heal all injuries it seemed. In her opinion it was a horrible waste to use it on somebody like him. With a vaccine like that they could save the world... if there was anything left to save.

However, the pain during the process of rejuvenation was whether extremely painful or confusing, so that they needed to keep Wesker sedated to the point of unconsciousness. Ada had read something about the so called somnolence, but she had never seen anybody pass out long-ranging. His body was almost complete again, except for the flesh on his arms. His face had been restored some time ago already and Ada still believed it was only to fright her.

The devilish mask of faked expressions still crept her out. His pale features contorted to a grimace of pain, maybe his intoxicated dreams haunted his mind, Ada didn't care right now.

The place he was caught in was a prison cell, temporarily supported with medical equipment. Origin was a new technology, it wasn't entirely safe to use yet.  
Ada watched the unconscious man with curiosity, as if the serum could suddenly make his deformed flesh look human. But this wasn't magic, even though she loved to believe it was. Seeing the sinews grow once more like a bloody swollen worm was incredible after all.

She stepped closer, filled with anguish. His presence was like the one of a mischievous animal, it felt like a hazard too horrible to get close to. The devil's eyes were still closed, but as she got closer it appeared as though he was trembling. Ada hesitated for a moment. It was such an unexpected sight, yet it felt familiar.

A long time ago, before all the chaos, terrors and crooked dreams she had been able to look at him like this, feeling no guilt or fear.

'Just the devil and his puppet now', she thought, 'even now.' Wesker was the predator and she was the frightful prey, eyes wide open facing the monster's mocking smile.

Ada touched his cheek with the back of her hand, barely putting pressure on it. His skin was cold and sweaty, as though he had lived through a fever and she could hear his breathing gradually speed up. This man was sick from sedatives and fire and his own thoughts, no longer able to live in the world he had to dominate so badly. A violent shiver ran through his body and he clenched his teeth like an angry animal.

It made things so easy to have his eyes hidden. Ada feared them for there was no life in them, something that hadn't changed over the years. But now they were not to be seen, making his face look even thinner and paler. The cheek bones looked like they were going to pierce through the flesh soon, in their desperate attempt to escape the human cage. The deep shadows under his eyes only proved Ada right: he was sick and weary. That was what she had come for after all. Wesker wasn't supposed to die, only restraining him would be sufficient.

Ada felt no remorse, although she knew of his impending fate. With the virus lost he was of no use, except for experiments on various other diseases. Still, Wesker was a monster, a sociopath. He had made her life become a living hell, sent her through wars of deceit, buried her soul in all the nightmares. She had no choice but to hate him, he was trying so hard to get her to.  
And all off a sudden she stared into his panic eyes and there was nothing she could think anymore. Ada stopped existing as a human; she turned into anguish with all her being. It wasn't only the ability to breath that was gone, her lungs stopped functioning, and her heart stopped ticking. But she wasn't a woman to scream or cry; that part of her had died long ago.

It was no act of sanity as she hit him in the face. Her hand hurt and she felt her anger rise, but Wesker didn't seem to care. Instead, he stared at the ceiling, his bloodshot eyes reflecting the dead expression on his face that almost made him look bored. But he wasn't awake, only passing from one sedation's vision to another.

"You're ging to hate this", she stated, trying to get his attention by slowly waving her hand in front of his face. Wesker didn't even blink.

His eyes were grey and snakelike and unfeeling and... 'Ada', he said in a low tone.

Then, for a moment too short to actually remember, he focused her. However, the brief rush of power faded and he shut his wyes again. It left her with a thought, stubborn and unrelenting.

The virus was removed, now offering the vulnerable emotional system to her to make use of. So what if it affected him strongly enough to erase all resistance? Ada knew Origin could not heal one's grossly distorted mind after revitalizing the body, but if the virus was gone, then what would be left of the infested shell?  
Watching his bare chest move with the hazy breathing she felt her disgust revert. Emotions blinded her, it was a restriction impossible to accept in her business. Ada needed to see Wesker as an asset, a valuable thing but without any rights.

With a sigh she tried to breath out all of the fear, the rage and all prejudices to keep calm. It took her only an instant. Readying the syringe she felt the sudden urge to stab it right through Weskers so amusingly beating heart to see if it'd even hurt him.  
It was no longer an act of emotion as he touched the helpless body to inject another dose of the Origin into his neck, no longer did she care for the pain it would cause him. He flinched, but even if he was awake again, he did not respond.

"Oh, devil, how far you've gone and how far you've fallen yet again", she whispered and then she smiled.

For all the years of frightful hopes he was going to pay. But at first she would be watching it all, to see what death brought to this world. Because every time that human monster returned, it also brought a part of the abyss with him, crossing the border with more than just his own sins.

Almost instantly her thoughts went back to Leon, who was the complete opposite, she hadn't seen him in years, since Spain, that was. But still... she couldn't forget; she'd never. But as sure as she was about her faded feelings, she knew that to return to him was not an option. As long as the Organization existed, there would always be the most likely chance to die a traitor's death. Leon was with the government- once the president and all of his spineless dogs fell, he would too.  
Ada sighed, stopping those useless thoughts at once. They did no good; they had never even guided her through a sleepless night.

"I will be back, as soon as it begins. Be ready for this play to commence."

* * *

The voices whispered again, a monstrous crowd of faint accusations, displaying the deceitful person they haunted. Or so they said... Wesker did not agree, not at all. But he kept quiet, as long as the pain rested only in the memory, safe and sound. They left a stain on his flawless mind. And it was not before long that they found the weakened spot somebody had damaged before...

'You're but a failure, a leftover', they said, 'You failed and you fell and you hit the ground just as we predicted.'

And they wouldn't stop laughing as a wicked choir of ghosts, silencing his resisting mind. First he had told himself they must have been produced by the sedatives, his last guiding hope in this drowned world, but now he was not so sure- he _was_ a leftover... and he _had_ failed.

A dream long lost, it seemed, a madman's dream. Or so they said...

Ada's words, however, seemed genuine. In her monologue she had said the world was going down because of bioterrorism. A cataclysmic storm of mutated creatures had descended upon America and other countries of the world. Those were good news indeed and Wesker had felt relief parts of his plan had at least caused an impact... at first, that was.

But when the sentiment faded like a mere scratch on the surface, he realized those weren't his ideals. These people trying to make money of it all would never understand the logic behind it. His vision was stained by those good for nothing terrorists, soiled with ignorance.  
Wesker did not feel bad for what he had done; he was too cold to even care.

The voices were growing too loud for him to withstand. The silence around him was screaming. He forced himself to concentrate, but his thoughts would always slip away.

'What if it all was nothing but hell, once again', he asked himself and he began to like the sound of it. But it wasn't just hell and he knew. This was the world fueling his anger, the world inhabited by those wicked walking corpses... who were the true undead, he asked himself smugly, they were all dead on the inside anyway.

He had tried to completely ignore the emotions that felt peculiar in his rational mind. They were unwelcome intruders, after all. But then he had noticed it was futile. Other than that, he needed to tame them, control them like an animal wreaking havoc in his body.

Wesker was no man of self-pity or doubts and now he knew that was only the best. The last time he had questioned his sanity, it had led to his fall... and the pain, the flames, the rain of fire. His insides seemed to coil and twist like they had done back then, prising open his torso with the vain tentacles carving mosaics into the human tissue.

He gasped for air and opened his eyes.

'Another...?', he thought in horror, 'how is that even...?' Then the drug caught up with him again. There was something seriously wrong with him. On the one hand a part seemed to be missing, but on the other hand there was too much... too much anger, too much pain, too much power.

So how come it still wasn't enough?

Wesker couldn't place a finger on what was wrong yet, the thought drove him mad. It couldn't be true... he felt ludicrous only considering having a split mind... but it was what he sensed. The different, weak person was speaking through him, breathing the same air, but scheming something else.

It couldn't be real, but the voices proved him wrong. They chuckled and laughed and screamed at him for his ignorance, they twisted and turned and echoed inside his mind. And then they stopped, abruptly.

'No', Wesker realized, 'They listen.'

"Only a few years longer and the world will be destroyed anyway. There's no need to bother with speeding it up. What you need is patience. The end will come soon enough."

It was_ her_ voice, the treacherous woman's; telling him stories of the world he was neither allowed to enter nor to leave. In her plastic smile glistened loathing, in each word laid another fear. Wesker knew of her nightmares, of the dark, the hunt and the kill. But his desire to kill her was long gone, wasn't it? She shouldn't hate him anymore, he believed, she should rather try to run.

'What brought you back here, in this deceptive battle you describe?', he asked, not saying a word, 'Was it me? Did they promise you to be the one pulling the trigger this time?'

He tried to focus and give her a smile too arrogant for her to bear, but all he could do was think. The drugs trapped him inside himself, hiding desperately behind bones and flesh and blood.

Wesker wasn't afraid, though. He wanted to kill, to struggle and to feel power fueling his ambition. There was just no way to accomplish that yet and there was no sense in trying to achieve the impossible.

A loud noise indicated that Ada was readying another syringe. That meant another quiet day. Ever since he had started living again he had tried to count the days, but it proved to be difficult... time was passing him in a caustic slow fashion.

Wesker wanted to rest for the moment, quietly agreeing with the shot he received once in awhile. He wasn't afraid, not at all.

It was the day the heads decided to wake Wesker up that Ada found herself wondering if that was worth it. She received a fair amount of money for this little vacation from retirement, but that didn't mean she wasn't risking her life.

She was the emotional connection... or at least the one member of the Organization coming closest to it. But how much sense was there in talking to a person who despised humanity? How could _talk_ actually trigger something not even torture brought up? That was what the file in her hand couldn't tell her. It bumped into her leg with each step, giving her a rhythm to walk to.

There were things she had never wanted to know about Wesker, the treatment he had received before and not responded to was but one of it. Naturally there was nothing pleasant about it. In fact, she had refused to read it all; if she was ordered to convince Wesker of something, it would only harm the operation if she had his past tortures in mind. Even if he wasn't able to read her mind, he would know.

The hallways in the underground parts of the Organization were more or less all looking the same. Like a broad metal tube inserted in a pulsing vein to investigate, she always thought. Walking through these sterile corridors made her feel uneasy. In fact, they were emitting the air of fear- it almost seemed like a shining grave.

As she entered the prison cell her first move was to dense the lights. It was like a ritual for her, the protest against submission. 'First blind the headlights, if you can't stop them from watching', she thought.

The lights flickered for a brief moment, then they surrendered. The atmosphere wasn't quite soothing; still it was a definite improvement.  
Ada walked over to the wall opposite of the door. There were a few things placed for her and it almost made her smile to see there was a pistol among it. It wouldn't get her anywhere to threat Wesker. He'd been through far worse.

She took the gun, however, checked the clip and placed it on the shelf again. Instead, she got the syringe with the morphine, the bundle of clothes and the sunglasses and walked over to the operation table. Even though she doubted Wesker would have any problem with talking to her with no clothes on, she somehow didn't like the thought. Actually, she wasn't feeling awkward around naked men, but with him it would be just wrong. Ada didn't bother getting him dressed though, she just put down the clothes on a chair next to the table and sat the glasses on it.

Even with the light dimmed like that, Wesker's eyes were too sensitive to endure it. Hence the sunglasses were a faked token of confidence; the Organization wanted him on their side for awhile, after all. Trying to bribe him was just ridiculous, Ada thought, he'd notice right away.  
She clenched her teeth and steadied herself to prepare for the confrontation. The heads had explained that it was probably the best to let her do the _introduction_ back into reality, because she was familiar with the subject.

Indeed she was, but of course she knew she was here to be tested herself. The last years had cost the Organization a huge amount of money and they didn't want to afford her anymore as just a non-operative agent. So she was transferred back. Ada was here because she needed the money and the protection. She was here because she'd be dead in a second otherwise. It wasn't because she wanted to. The hope of a normal future was gone, now that she was back in action. She'd die on the battlefield.

The thought suddenly frightened her. A few years earlier, with her mind safe and sound in confidence, she wouldn't have been bothered. Now, there was only fear and self-preservation. Ada loved to pity herself way too much.

She turned around to face Wesker again. Of course he was still lying on the iron table, his body half-covered with a white blanket. He still looked terrible, she noticed. The sedatives had put too much pressure on him, slowly decaying his body. All the wounds were healed, though- and that was what truly mattered.

Ada placed the syringe on a medical table and stepped closer. The morphine's effects were slowly ceasing. There was a cannula stuck into his crook of the arm, pumping a liquid into the body right now. It was one of the mechanism only authorized personnel could commence, something to stop Origin from causing any further impact and eliminating the sedation completely. It seemed to be only an instant, a blink-of-an-eye-one, but it seemed to extend until it almost tore her apart in anticipation. But when she moved closer, unable to wait for the inevitable any longer, it all began.

The devil opened his eyes.

* * *

Chris was too tired to properly read the documents he stared at. Apparently they were case and suspect files, but in the back of his mind was a thought occupying him. His work was important to him; it kept him busy after all. Additionally there were people thinking the same as he did- and they hated all terroristic actions, too. Chris suddenly felt like a hypocrite being here. Since his last mission two months had passed and in that time he hadn't exactly been thinking about how to save the world or even somebody's life. No... since that incident he wasn't thinking anymore. All was affected by emotions he could not deny.

Sheva was dead, his brave partner hat not just gotten out of a bomb attack unscathed... Chris still couldn't understand what had happened and what the hell made him survive. He should be happy, but he wasn't.

Every time he made it through such a disaster, he lost something or someone dear to him. So what price had Jill been, he asked himself, why taking her away?

Chris yawned and laid down the papers on his desk. It was useless trying to work when _she_ was on his mind, completely filling his thoughts.

It had been only a few weeks after the assault that Jill had vanished without a trace all off a sudden. She wouldn't answer her phone or ever open the door at home, so that Chris started to worry soon enough. It wasn't like her, running away without saying a word. So he had begun to search for her, with no success. There was no sign of her anywhere, as if a person by the name of Jill Valentine had never existed.

And now all that was left of her was the memory of their last meeting, when they had talked about the old times they didn't want to talk about.

Chris closed his yes, trying to remember exactly how it had felt like. Savoring the moment now gone hurt, but he was no rational person in this minute.

They had talked and shared so much more information than all the years before. Their fears, their hopes, their dreams... and then they had kissed, eventually, as if all the time before had finally paid off. And it definitely had if that moment was the result. Chris still didn't know how to feel about it. He'd always known, of course, they both agreed with being more than just partners. And then she had left, never returning.

'She hasn't returned _yet_', Chris reminded himself, 'But she will.'

It infuriated him to see how everything he got was taken away a second later, it annoyed him. With no missions issued at the present time there was no way to lose some pressure, except for the one thing left to do...

Looking at the file before him, Chris felt heavy with memories. With one fingertip he traced the suspect's name as though it could ease his mind. 'Jessica Sherawat' wasn't who he wanted to seek and destroy anymore. But that was what it would lead to eventually; she wasn't exactly a woman to silently surrender.

And in the information Chris had received from an unknown call he couldn't track down laid another hazard. The mutilated voice had told him there was a chance to encounter a 'surprise guest on the stage, making the whole operation even more interesting.'

That wasn't helpful at all, Chris also didn't know if it actually mattered. Of course there'd be people he knew, revealed as fellow traitors when met with Jessica, but that would be nothing new... unless... Chris didn't want to think about any other possible meanings hidden in the message. Due to his overtly paranoia there were shadows of the past chasing him still and he couldn't afford this to get in his way on this mission. It was his superior who had decided to follow the lead of the mysterious person's call, against all odds. Even though everyone knew it was probably a trap of some sort, they had no other chance. They needed success and they needed it now.

Still, Chris owed Jessica a chance to explain and it startled him he had to force himself to accept that. For the last three years, he had found that it all was worth fighting for, but he lacked yet a reason to justify the slaughter. It had never occurred to him he could have indulged to violence and its convincing powers until one suspect had left the interrogation almost dead and beaten up.

The past had numbed him, to protect his unquestionable sanity. Of course it was justified- but he'd never forget the look on Jill's face seeing the suspect. And god, how she had looked at him... with repulsion.

'What if human monsters are not what we should fear?', she had asked him once, 'What if the monstrous humans are?' It was now that he realized she hadn't been talking about herself at all, it was far more difficult then he believed.

However, those in charge of the assaults on the B.S.A.A. and the launch of B.O.W.s were guilty. They deserved to die, that was obvious. And they would get what they deserved. Jessica, though, had helped him... was that enough already to spare her life, if only to explain her true intentions?

Chris got off his chair and left the question behind. There was yet time to clear his head, the mission was planned to start in a few days. Walking through the dark, empty office made him think back to past times he denied himself to remember.

'What if...?' Shaking the thoughts off again, he pushed open the doors, stepping out into the cold, nightly streets. The lights shone too bright not to stare at, their mesmerizing shapes twisting with each blink of the eye. It almost looked as if they were alive, but the only thing moving down on the sidewalk, following Chris' every move was the shadow he cast.

'Only a few minutes, to get the thoughts off my head', he told himself, shivering in the cold. Then he'd be going back, to check on the preparations that the soldiers accompanying him to his mission to Canada had made by now.

'It's nonsense anyway... it's impossible that...'

How wrong he was.


	2. Thy will be done

**My chapters for this story will always be like this. Long, detailed and nothing happening at all. Oh well, the latter is a lie. I do write action and gore. It is a horror game after all. Still, I think the rating is appropriate for now, again, tell me if you disagree.**

**bloody rapter, aquacrow; thank you for your reviews, the alerts and the favourite. I greatly appreciate it.**

**And again: No matter what you read in this chapter, I will not pull the "I-am-your-father" stunt. That would be cheap. **

**Enjoy.**

* * *

**II: Thy will be done**

All Ada wanted to do was scream at him, hit him for all the times she hadn't been able to sleep. She wanted him to know what he'd done to ruin her life. But all she did was stare.

Wesker's eyes weren't how they were supposed to be. They were haughty and bored, giving the impression she was looking at someone standing so far above her, someone built from ice. But they were grey and that was what stunned her, sealing the insults away. She had expected to see the abominable red iris and slit pupils, the proof for his drained and depleted sanity. Those _human_ eyes made fun of her, trying to lull her into a sense of false safety.

And then Ada swallowed her childish paranoia and anger, hiding herself from his devouring knowledge. She needed to restrain herself from showing any weakness he could make use of. Because once his deluded webs were woven, it was too late; it had always been. Hence panic was not acceptable- it would only stir his blood and provoke the devilish anger to rise.

For now, keeping quiet seemed like a good plan, albeit saying something intimidating would be even better.

Ada tried to think of something witty, something to make the silent man see she wasn't scared at all and more than ready to kill him if he didn't cooperate. There were no words left in her head, no thoughts of disapproval. It was surreal, the sterile light burning the last glimpse of sanity she had to share. Her mind was blank.

Wesker shifted uncomfortably and tried to sit up, steadying himself with one hand. She saw his muscles flex beneath the pale skin and the urge to just run away and hide overcame her; seeing his body move, function again frightened her intensely.

Ada couldn't say a word, even if she knew it was the worst possible choice. Unfortunately, Wesker thought differently of the matter.

"The much my presence may elate you, it should not restrain you from welcoming me", he said in a low tone and with a stare most indifferent. His voice felt like a shower of icy water, stinging in all her wounds and putting a heavy strain on her body. But the much she hated it, it also woke her up from her paralysis.

"If there was anything to celebrate I would have considered bringing flowers", she replied, softly smiling at him.

They were back in the game almost instantly, with her mind slowly stabilizing. It cured her of the terror. In a nightmare he was invincible, but in the real world she could at least try to face and kill the demon, ripping his human facade off with her fingernails blackened by his blood.

But Ada knew she could merely oppose him for an instant, until he let the shadows of her past emerge from his talks. Once he played that game with her, she was lost. Wesker knew to turn her feelings against her far too well, with that oh-so-sophisticated words he connected one insult to another, destroying the balance to send her tumble and fall. He did that to everybody, though, she was not even special.

He smirked, still looking rather bored.

"To be _honest_", he responded, savouring the sound of his fake promise, "I did not expect you to burst out in tears of joy. How long has it been, however? Three, maybe four years?"

The question was as faked as his serenity, she was almost certain he'd try to choke her in a few seconds. 'No', she wanted to say, 'No, it's been less, so much less.' But then she noticed he was right. It wasn't quite what she had wanted to hear, she wasted so much time...

"Since the day of your failure? You should know better than anybody else." Ada kept her voice calm and as friendly as she managed right now. Wesker seemed to appreciate her comeback, still there was something that bothered her. His whole behavior was what she'd never get used to again, yet it felt different. And when she observed how he studied his hand as he moved it, as though he saw it for the first time, she realized. Wesker too was playacting. It was just logical considering his treatment, but it only occurred to her now that is was important for him to show no weakness as well.

'Indeed I do. I must assure you that a date of death presents a caesura in your life and the much it might interest the person in question, it is also directly connected with a permanent lack of cognitive ability. As a consequence, I may have to disappoint you since I cannot serve you with an answer."

Ada remembered that it had been exactly this way of talking that made her hate Wesker. She wasn't sure if he actually intended to sound bored and haughty about everything he said, but it was almost impossible for him not to notice.  
Additionally, it was in his eyes as well. They might be human, but still filled with the overflowing boredom he deemed to be appropriate.

"Changing subjects on me, Wesker? I'm terribly hurt. You, if anyone, should know that is not going to make you appear less suspicious."

"I do not feel the need to explain myself to the likes of you, Ada. Your superiors, however, would be astonished to see you alive if I don't", he replied, his face still expressionless.

"You do not even make sense anymore", she said, smiling softly, "What is it you want to imply?"

Wesker cocked his head to one side and seemed to perforate her with stares. "Isn't it obvious, dear?"

Ada refused to answer. Even though he should be the one backing down, begging for his life, she found herself almost desperately searching for a way to get out.

However, she knew the most basic rule in dealing with people like him: _Never let them corner you, always counterattack. Do not let them see your fear or uncertainty._

"No matter how uncooperative I am, in the end they will resort to torture. Violence will eventually lead to what people like you might call the truth and voilá... I will be back in this business, for I am needed. You, however, are a risk. So what if you, the simplifying factor in the equation, cannot bring the desired solution?" Wesker did not joke, nor did he lie to her. Ada knew he was right. Torture wasn't her business, if the heads needed to use it to get what they wanted, she wouldn't be part of it. By the time it would happen, she would be dead already.

"Oh dear, never forget I am the one preserving you of those tortures", she replied and smiled again, almost wanting to give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. But she restrained and walked back toward the desk with the file she'd brought. A gesture like that would've just humiliated him; and the much she hated it, she needed him to tell _her_ and only her what he knew.

Ada began writing in the file.

_'The subject shows a greater lack of mobility due to the drug influence. I suggest reducing the dose in order to improve the result and preparing him for the mission at hand as soon as possible. He does seem to be in a good mental condition. Like various other probands he tends to resort to repression and mitigation against the memory of his failure. In the process I will confront him directly with the facts to estimate his suitability for field deployment. I would suggest, however, not to send him on a mission that might include persons or places he is closely connected to. He sees his death as an insult- avoiding reminders of the day is crucial to gain his-'_ Ada stopped before writing the word down. _'trust. Keeping him under close surveillance is advisable.'_

"Oh dear. How much closer can the surveillance get?"; Wesker asked in a resigned voice, "Escaping your nightmares, fleeing outside to steal a final look at the stars- just to see their eyes hiding in the skies."

Ada felt the fear solidify in her intestines, almost making her gag. His words were true, yet again accurate. He knew what she was thinking. Their relationship had always been like this, after all.

All she was was a weapon, her personality only a tool to control her.

She spun around, ready to take the gun and shoot his crazy head to pieces.

Wesker didn't even look at her, he was too busy with fastening his belt. His movements were erratic and it looked as though it would take him years to get fully dressed. Ada couldn't help but sneer at the fact he had put his sunglasses and gloves on before anything else; but it wasn't like smiling about somebody's craze. It meant only he cared about not leaving any traces of his identity- they could've branded him 'murderer' across the forehead as an alternative.

For a moment, Ada wondered what the gloves were for. _Trying to hide the hands that spilt the blood so many times, perhaps? Oh no, I forgot... in order to do that, he ought to care._

"You know what you're here for, don't you?", she asked coldly, trying to remind him where he was. He should be the one frightened.

"Apart from being stripped naked, drugged and imprisoned? I dislike disappointing you that frequently, but I happen to be at a loss." Wesker didn't sound angry, only amused.

"You still think this is a joke, right? I can assure you it isn't. The Organization-" Ada couldn't finish.

"How intriguing", he interfered calmly, facing her, "for I think the only joke here is you."

Ignoring her frozen face, he moved closer, slowly, menacingly. He didn't have to use force, his voice transmitted the suspense right into her heart.

"I can sense your fear, Miss Wong, you could also spit it in my face and it wouldn't become any clearer. It is boiling in your blood like it did that day you decided to alienate from your survival", he said, stalking closer, "Tell me, does that scar still bring back memories?"

Ada couldn't move. Wesker was only a few steps away, but he restrained from coming closer. And then he clenched his teeth and leaned onto the shelf. It was only a little sign of defeat, but it showed her he was more human now.

_No... he is a monster and that is irreversible. He will be human no more, never again._

"Yes", she replied calmly, "And I am glad it does. Unlike you, I have memories in which I survive."

It had been over four years since their last meeting. She had brought him news from his creator, Ozwell Spencer, luring him into the old man's mansion. First it had been a casual occasion- than, it had escalated.

The accuse, the _fight_ and the run... it seemed like it had happened a decade ago. He had injured her, leaving a scar on her shoulder. His wounds were healed by now, surely, but she doubted he'd forget.

"Let me get this straight now, Wesker, so that we understand one another", she went on a bit more harsh, "You may not be at my mercy, but your at the Organization's and I am their representative at the moment. So, as much as your games amuse them, they will get tired of it sooner or later. And once that happens, you should be less of a nuisance."

It felt good to be in control, for a brief, delicate moment. It felt like surviving.

However, she stayed professional, took the syringe and walked closer, trying to look inapproachable.

"Now, let me give you something for the pain."

He followed her movements with his eyes, but he did not resist as she injected the morphine into his arm. He was trembling again, though, and it worried her.

The more reason he got to be angry, the more it'd hurt to have pissed him off. She'd pay, sooner or later.

"Mercy...", he repeated, lacing, "Indeed. How merciful it is to revive me coincidentally in a war... and how altruistic." He laughed, smugly and quiet. "Well, Miss Wong, you have a lot of explaining to do."

* * *

Ada explained too much and too fast, but Wesker didn't care. He had figured it out pretty much by himself already, knowing there was always a truth behind what lies Ada had fallen for. Three years ago his body had been retrieved in order to gain access to Uroboros. If it had been only about the virus, they wouldn't have needed him. But in his blood it began to change, becoming less poisoning. For him, that was- there was still a long way to go before it could be used without risks.

Apparently a terror group called 'Ataraxis' had then deployed B. they had bought from the Organization. It seemed only reasonable their targets were and had been European and American countries- several areas were still in the process of evacuation. The government had been unable to interfere; private organizations like the B.S.A.A. lost supporters along the way. It happened too fast for them all to act, they were instantly overchallenged and so the people lost trust in them. In times it should have been obvious to resort to special operatives- but humans were crazy beings. Once their trust was lost, it wasn't easy to be reestablished.

And when the B.S.A.A. was hitting the rocks, 'Ataraxis' killed them off with a bomb assault on the headquarters in the United Kingdom. Wesker liked the thought of it, but Ada soon brought him back to reality.

"I am sorry to disappoint you, though. Chris Redfield has been confirmed as one of the survivors."

"As far as I know, he has been stationed in America only. I had never raised hopes at all; you cannot exterminate vermin that easily", he answered indifferently.

"Ah, do not abandon hope yet. I have heard that the explosion at least freed the world of his partner, this Sheva Alomar."

Wesker chose not to react. Naturally he remembered the woman, it was hard not to since she had shot a missile straight in his face. His hatred for her was limited, though- she was just another incomprehensive human, nothing more. Due to the constant confrontation with people like her it had been only an inconvenience to deal with her; her death did not mean much to him.

"Oh, not satisfied with that?", Ada asked cockily and wrote something down in her file again, "I expected as much." She seemed to notice he was not in the mood for playing mind games he would always win and indemnified herself with silence.

Wesker could not fail to note she had changed over the years. The _war_ she would always talk about had left its scars on her body. It wasn't the woman herself that fascinated him; it was the condition human tissue could be put in. Small wrinkles spread across her eyes, although she was younger than him; deep rings under her eyes showed how bad the nightmares affected her. Earlier that day he had noticed how she refused to look at him with her human iris; it would have made him laugh if he hadn't this feeling of indifference dominate his thoughts.

Ada looked up, her eyes still as big and shiny as glass marbles. Wesker observed her carefully and realized she reminded him of a scared rabbit; her fear so apparent in her face. And all off a sudden, as they continued to stare at one another in silent agreement about their situation as enemies, he understood what connected them.

_Fear... is closing the gap. _

"Uroboros is not the only virus you owned at this point", she said, as if to interrupt his thoughts from invading her mind. He couldn't read people's minds with psychic powers; he could read their faces and gestures as if they opened up their skull, exposing their brain to him. Considering the fact he despised emotions he was excellent in interpreting them in others. At times, he approached it with repulsion. Still, she feared how much he knew of her; the past she mourned, the future she hated.

"We have found another, new sample of something the researchers call 'Cerberus' for now. They presume it was created by the Progenitor connecting to your body; for now, you have to expect it causing long-term disadvantages", she explained further, looking him in the eyes for the first time.

Wesker remained calm.

"What do you think, Ada?", he asked, raising his chin.

"I believe it is responsible for your nightmares and might also cause the pain", she replied without hesitation, frowning, "It is nothing you should just shrug off."

Wesker couldn't explain what he felt, but it surely wasn't concern. Drugs caused this light-headedness to spread his wings in his mind, clearing his vision so perfectly. Hatred was something he had always been able to rely on, something that was sure to come back. And now it seemed like it had vanished... never to return?

'Cerberus' was a problem he _had_ to shrug off. There was nothing he could do about whatever they had found in his body; if it caused the voices to rise and the shadows to emerge, then he had to bear it. And he would.

What worried him, on the contrary, was the Organization's intention. It made him curious they had waited over three years to get him back to life. What reason could they possibly have to change their mind? Was it really just because they wanted the _fight_ to stop? The answers laid in the time that had passed, in the progress of the conflict.

Wesker sighed annoyed.

"They want you to work as an agent again. Especially now, in the battle against 'Ataraxis', they consider reprieving you. As a weapon, you are still useful", Ada continued to tell him, "It is not decided yet."

"Certainly", he snarled, "It is but my behavior that can _turn the table._"

The voices started whispering again and her uninspired attempts to trick him into this arrangement with the Organization were tiring.

Ada looked down on the file as she talked to him, but Wesker focused her delicate neck, so easy to snap... killing her was an option. But still not seductive enough to erase his sanity. If he wanted to get out he needed her alive. Her words meant nothing anymore, the brief moment he had understood them was gone. This most human way of talking, constructs of pretending and denying, did never reach him.

"The heads give you an incentive, too, something you could really like", she said, denying, pretending, "Chris Redfield's former partner of the FBC, Jessica Sherawat has officially been confirmed as my target." It was then she regained a bit of her former strength, grinning at him. "If you stay all that nice and cuddly, I might consider taking you with me on the mission."

"Terrific", he replied dryly, "I see the Organization still values the human life; Blood is currency, after all."

Ada wrote down a note on the medical estimate, appearing concentrated. It was ridiculous how she knew he was right, still pretended not to think so.

"What crime has she committed?" Wesker was not genuinely interested, he would kill this Jessica woman no matter what she'd done or not done, but it felt less like a human act if he had a reason.

"She is trying to set up the mole we sent to infiltrate Ataraxis. If her unit isn't stopped, she will succeed and destroy any relation of trade we ever had. The Organization needs their money, but also the information."

Watching her frail, slender fingers move the pen over the paper, Wesker smirked. He could just break them, distorting the picture; she hadn't noticed yet his virus had returned by now. It was weak still, but growing stronger with each heartbeat.

_I_ am_ the virus, dear... you should know by now. _

"An independent organization that survived that long with just the backup of their members will not rely only on the use of terroristic actions", he commented casually and tilted his head back, crossing his arms. The chaos in his mind hurt terribly, as if the thoughts put a strain on his head.

"What do you mean?", Ada asked, folding her hands on the table that separated them.

"They have probably begun to sell their own biological weaponry. And once private persons are involved, it gets harder to track all transactions down." He looked at her again. "However, even if you didn't know, your superior did. They do not need me for deductions, after all."

Shoving the truth into her face controlled her, she did not expect it obviously. Ada was an easy enemy.

"Are you speaking from experience? Your schemes did not work all that good, what proof do you have?", she countered, laying down the pen. Her knuckles were visible through the skin, of course. _Would she scream if I broke them? What do humans see in their distorted limbs? A painting, perhaps, a work of art in all the blood. _

"In your medical opinion I read you might show a great aversion to remembering. Is that correct?"

Wesker watched her closely. Was she what they wanted her to be or herself, he wondered, and what difference would it make? Humans were weird creatures, always masking their true selves...

"Most memories do not serve any purpose anymore. It is a sentimental flaw to be merged in those fragments of the past, useless indeed", he explained composedly, "So what reason would there be to ever remember?"

Ada smiled.

"You dodged the question."

Apart from the little signs of aging her appearance had not changed. She still wore a red, provocative dress and her hair was still black and rather short. But her posture seemed so different; a submissive tendency had been added to it. Wesker despised that attitude, it was a sign of defeat; what could the Organization possibly do to achieve that?

For a brief moment he almost felt ready to tell her something more, to stop frighten her as usual. However, he looked down onto her notes, deciphering some of the scribbling on the paper. He saw 'bitterness' and 'repression' and it made his chin harden to feel the resignation. There had always been people trying to analyze him, failing miserably.

He leaned back in his chair and pondered on how Ada could believe he would fall for her shenanigans. Even if he had considered informing her, it wouldn't have been revelations, just a hint or two, because he felt like it. Never in hell would he reveal any more.

"My story is long gone and an insignificant one, anyway... why don't you rather tell me another perceptive tale of yours?", he asked viciously, causing her to almost drop her pen, "A tale of shadows haunting you after nightfall, maybe?"

Cornering her with words was so easy, spinning threads of memories around her until she choked. Ada backed down instantly, her eyes flickering like the light of a dying bulb. They gave her away, those so-called mirrors of the soul, as they shone with a gleam of panic.

"I wonder, will it be the one with the lonely streets and the coming storm? Or maybe the world painted in black-and-white-and-blood, infested by all those people you killed?"

He paused, letting the words sink in, deep under the skin to never come back forth. She was doomed, listening to his captivating, yet malevolent talks.

"A battleground, they said, that too much blood soaked through... or maybe you would prefer the true nightmare?", he went on, never slowing down his lacing, never speeding up.

Ada kept quiet, so quiet. And there it was again, their special connecting owing to the fear, the one that made him wield the power over her frail mind.

The voices were silent as well, having nothing left to say. Did they hesitate, Wesker asked himself, or did they no longer want him to listen?

"They were only _protecting_ you, trapping you to keep you from the monsters in men's clothing outside", he drawled with his cold voice, "Didn't you... _love_ them, Ada?"

The darker conscience retreated, into the void the emotions had created, leaving Wesker with nothing to oppose the demon he was. They could teach him no more for the moment, they were done.  
Ada stared at him, mesmerized by the words that her cunning prisoner had burned into her heart.

Wesker waited, patiently, demanding.

In his imagination, Ada launched at him, smashing her knuckles into his face. Bones would shatter and their bleak sound would echo through his battered head. They would pierce his human skull, this useless contraption they had trapped him in.

And he'd control the pain, turning the tables on her.  
Wesker could almost see the terror on her face when noticing his virus was active once more. He could almost hear the flesh rip and the cry of agony go unnoticed. He could almost feel the warm blood on his skin, how it would fill the hole in his chest.

_Fear... how does it feel, again? What does it make people become?_

But Ada wasn't stupid. She would always know better than to fight him like this, especially after her unpleasant experiences in the past.

Wesker felt nothing, as he imagined the blood soil his vision. It was certainly easier to keep these demons in control once they had been set free than to fully stop them from approaching. They emerged from his subconscious, from those peculiar emotions. And they'd not leave so soon.

"Maybe another time", Ada stated, a little startled. Her plan was to remind him of his position again, which was clearly impossible. Her eyes were still dark with fear.

"Pity", he replied, forcing his lips into a thin smirk. The visions did not make him feel different, he did not care... so where did it go, that endless rage? Confusion took over slowly and Wesker felt himself being dragged down deeper into the vortex of madness.

_It must be caused by those tranquilizers... so why am I losing the thread so frequently? After all that's happened I should have gotten used to it._

"So, I suggest we talk business then, shall we?", he asked and put on the mask that never shattered, the aloof one, the real one. It was like a painted version of him, the Dorian Grey picture that shielded him from the outside world. It kept away the humanity; it was the attitude that felt closest to be being the right.  
William had once called him 'chilly' and that was right. Wesker was the cold, the dead, the empty. And he sure as hell loved being like this.

"Oh, now you are the one changing _my_ delicate subjects on _me_? I think you are doing it wrong, darling." Adas voice was still not resolved; her fear went straight to the bone and never subsided. However, their talks were always ending like this, so did their fights. Even with the casual subjects- if they ever managed to get to those- she would always be defiant.

"Oh, dear, I intended to ease your pain. My philanthropic nature tells me to, after all, how can I repress such a _human_ urge to _help_?"

She frowned involuntarily.

"Actually, my nature just tells me to give you a bullet to the head, even if I know it wouldn't do much", she said in a rather friendly manner, "But I do not shoot unarmed civilians unless they try to eat my brains." It sounded charming; with her silk voice she let everything sound like a compliment.

Wesker raised his chin and smirked chillily.

"Shall that be diagnosed as covetousness for a stranger's pain already, my dear?", he asked, seeing right through those angst-acquainted eyes of hers, "_Unarmed civilians_... the mislead, the deluded, do not number among this definition, I believe. Those poor, innocent people only used by frantic heads of frantic schemes in their frantic experiments... history repeats itself in the injustice they faced, does it not?"

"If you considered yourself one of them, then maybe I'd agree."

There was something about her attitude he just couldn't forget about, just like it was with Jill and the Redfields. Wesker didn't hate Ada as much as them, but their survivor's past bothered him nevertheless.

He was like a caged animal; they cornered him and he bit, they retreated and he escaped. Turning the tables, with his back against the wall- it was one of the easiest tasks.

It's what they had taught him.

It's what they had wanted him to be.

"Oh, I forgot. It is repulsive to even think about being human at all, eh?", Ada taunted, not expecting an answer at all. She straightened herself then and focused her eyes on the file once more.

"Can I take your derision as an affirmation of your cooperation then?"

Wesker cocked his head.

Her heart beat ever so slow now, calm and controlled. It was like a drum sounding in his ears, the clang vibrating in his head; his lips tingled with each throb. It had been such a long time since he had seen it... '_life'_. How could a few liters of liquid and motional intestines change so much?

"Indeed." He extended one hand casually, leaning over the desk only the slightest bit. "This should be made official, don't you agree?"

Ada looked almost disgusted by his violation of the gesture. After a moment of hesitation, she reached out and shook his hand carefully. Her prudence was appropriate.

Wesker grabbed her wrist and squeezed hard enough to make her see his power was not a human's anymore. She knew it instantly; her eyes gave her away again.

It was only a swift assault, a demonstration of the control he still held. When her eyes widened and her pulse quickened, he retreated.

"It is an honor, Miss Wong", he simply stated, nodding even-temperedly.  
Ada forced a smile on her face. Every time she violated her lips, forcing them into this distorted position, it looked less human. It was a reassurance for herself she was at least able to smile still.

Wesker entirely disliked people who continued on treating him like he was one of their stupid, ailing crowd. Asking him for cooperation was needless; he had no choice. The fact that she had decided on doing it nonetheless showed only her disrespect.

_She doesn't know her place, like all the other creatures tortured by their reality's chores. _

Their fight was one of duplicitous words and the truth in both of their heads. If one led their guard down here, they all dashed and tore the lucky soul apart.

Other people at their age were busy with their family, their children and the foolish dream of happiness, found somewhere else than hell. Wesker was disgusted by the thought of it all; the whole American Dream was propaganda for a race for death, a race with no finish line.

There was no turning back for someone like him.

"I'm elated to hear that", Ada replied, turning her head to face the door, "Mr. Carter?"

The name sounded somewhat familiar, but Wesker was sure he didn't know the man that stumbled in only seconds later.

"Yes ma'am?", he asked nervously, making his age become even more apparent. He sounded like a teenager, a rookie infatuated with the power the Organization offered.

"The copies of our facility number 71's interior, if you would." Ada's smile didn't budge as though it had been cemented into her features.  
The man called Carter nodded and stepped outside again. Wesker almost instantly forgot his face, that was just one more soldier to get rid of. Slow-brained, dumb people that's what they were, including... Chris.

Rage wavered inside him as he remembered. Yes, that was another name on the list; not only Ada would account for what she did.

* * *

Ada watched Carter leave. She wasn't sure if Wesker had noticed how much the two of them resembled each other, but it still got her worried. It was a coincidence, an unfortunate one for the young Bryan Carter, who didn't yet know of anything.

Men, no, boys like him didn't belong here. At the age of eighteen, he should be more worried about some party or his girl. He shouldn't be thinking about a virus of some sort or a battle he'd never escape from. Even though she was a coward, she pitied Carter. For the years yet to come.

Preparing herself for her next objective she shifted to look at Wesker again. The outlines of his face were stronger than Bryan's and his nose was sharper. But apart from that and the permanently frozen expression they looked alike.

_He has to have notice... it's like seeing an old photograph._

The Organization had brought her back to be an emotional trigger for Wesker. Now she knew there was more behind it, they would probably force her to accompany him to Canada. And once that was finished... no one knew. She would never be able to live a normal life again, never be able to-

"The dreamy white fence will not keep you alive, Miss Wong, and that is what people like you always crave for, is it not? Maybe Mr. Kennedy was to approve of your extended lifespan. Maybe, that is."

It hurt, even though she knew he was just using it all as a weapon, all those little things locked up in the back of her mind, never to be thought of. It hurt almost too much.

But then she looked at him and remembered whom she was dealing with.

Wesker didn't have anything at all, no home, no friends and no lover. He wasn't the one to insult her.

"Well, what is it you have?", she asked, as calm as she managed, which wasn't much, "Despite your ego, your madness and your corpses whispering to you in the dark?"

Her voice didn't crack; she kept pushing her emotions aside.

Wesker smirked briefly; it looked as if this gesture was still new to him, like he had to practice it for show. Ada couldn't tell if he was amused or close to killing her.

_No, he isn't angry. I can't get under his skin anymore, there's nothing left to hurt._

"Voices, my dear? Once I have cleaned the world of another human's worthless existence, there are no voices left to cry with. They all stay silent, forever." His voice was dark and quiet. It was ice and the fires of hell, it was silk and steel at once. He could kill with this voice alone, as much as it killed Ada to listen to his words one second after another.

Wesker _was_ the terror, he was the fear and the nightmare she was lost in. Fearing him hurt terribly.

"You were talking in your sleep", she started to explain, looking away from his face, somewhere, just somewhere else. However, she startled him a little; his chin hardened visibly.

"You kept telling me of those voices, restless and merciless, how they'd scream and shout and cry."

It was strange to keep this going, but now she couldn't stop.

"It wasn't just one nightmare, those were _your_ demons, weren't they? The ones terrifying that wicked, disappointed boy you tried to kill over and over again, I assume. They are still haunting you", she guessed, "Now tell me, is this a story of yours?"

Ada felt the fear she wanted to put him through flow into herself. She was terrified, yet eager to try his patience. The deeper she was drawn into the abyss, the more she wanted to crush. Does he think similarly, she wondered, does he ever-

Wesker laughed threateningly. Coming from him, it sounded wrong. Then, suddenly, the sound was close, the presence of the monster drawing near.

"Let me give you two advices, Miss Wong, two you should never dare to forget", he whispered, next to her, his voice as serene as ever, "One: Never allow yourself to trust someone whom you are useful to. Their lies are the easiest to justify."  
He paused for a moment, allowing her to think about it. She didn't dare to turn or speak.

"And two: Facing on obviously demented sociopath you mustn't let your feelings get the better of you. We are defined by what we want and what we want is always what we don't have- emotions, in this case."

He took off his glasses and kept his demonic stare on her from across the table.

_How could he- did he move that fast or did my mind play tricks on me? That time before I thought I was wrong, but now... it has to be the virus._

"So you are saying you and I are the same? Did you just confess you are human?", she replied, actually surprised he had been that honest.

"Who said I was talking about me?"

They were interrupted by someone shoving the door open. Carter entered with the promised file, seemed to want to say something and then decided against it as he saw Wesker's eyes. It apparently shocked him; he dropped the file onto the table and then ran for the door.

Ada and Wesker both stayed silent as it fell shut. She needed to think of something to do to prevent all this from happening. It was alright for her to abuse Wesker's abilities to gain power, but she didn't want to be involved any longer. A few weeks with him and their exhausting talks would probably drive her to kill herself. But what to do...?

There was no way out.

"How does it feel?", she asked matter-of-factly, her eyes on her fingers still clenching the pen.

"All this virus' power and whatever it gives you."

"It is reliable", he answered slowly, making it almost sound genuine.

"Was it worth it?"

"Perhaps", he responded, pushing the sunglasses on the bridge of his nose.

It was a moment of silence between them, but the first that wasn't only awkward. A talk like that was the closest to normal they could get, their private meeting of lunatics wasting their time with a never-ending war. If it hadn't been the two of them, she would've smiled at their situation.

She didn't.

"Shall we go on with the subject then? I would not entirely disapprove."

Wesker disrupted the atmosphere, but that was probably because of his lack of sensibility.

Shuffling through the files she began to explain the matter to him.

"The facility in Canada once belonged to the Organization. In the last years, during the B.O.W. launch, Ataraxis has taken it over, just to leave it to decay. Their members partly belonged to the group responsible for Terragrigia, Veltro. Jessica Sherawat is among them... she even killed her own partner in search of the traitor. We have to take her out as soon as possible."

Pointing down at the map of the area, she continued.

"They'll be returning in a few days, to arrange a meeting with a customer. If we take the way through the sewers, we can get there without catching their attention."

Ada traced the path she had discussed with her superior earlier with her fingertip. It made it even more unreal, as though she was trying to command a fake version of her from far away.

"I don't know what we should be doing about the private customers you mentioned earlier, however", she said, actually rather talking to herself, "They also seem to set up their own test areas with the weapons they bought from us. When all their creatures run off and wreak havoc again, the whole country will go down."

She shot him a glare.

"Not that you'd care, I know."

"Oh, I do care", he replied, smirking, "I would cherish every second of it. And about that other problem..."

Wesker tapped his fingers on the table, patiently, as if to avoid looking nervous. It worked well.

"What do you propose?", she inquired.

"Once information leaks through to the customers their money and investigations aren't safe with the Ataraxis people, they will come to the conclusion it would be better to sell... and now have a guess who they will first appeal to, my dear."

Ada watched his unmoving face. He made a decent amount of sense; she was convinced he knew what he was talking about.

"You have a point, but what if they decided it's not worth the risk?"

"Why bother?", he said coldly, "You intend to set up a few of their agents anyway. All you have to ensure is that the public's attention is focused on it. Put pressure on businessman and you force them to act."

Ada noticed his British drawl become more apparent; she guessed it was related to his annoyance. It made him sound even haughtier, but he didn't seem to notice or care.

"I'll consider telling my superior", she replied politely.

Wesker sneered as a response.

"Only to see cameras in the skies, however. They will not conveniently stop it... watching you."

"So? What if I don't care at all?"

"I extraordinarily dislike people lying to me. It is downright pathetic to believe it could convince me of anything", he answered with an icy tone.

Ada smiled tiredly.

"I am sure you got to know lies along your way."

"Eyes followed your every movement in this world... but you need to fear the sick brains beneath them in a human's skull."

This man poisoned her mind and kept her in the sheltered life she hated so much. If he'd just... but Ada knew that wasn't going to help anyhow. Killing Wesker would only lead to new nightmares. His whole existence needed to be extinguished in order to save her. The memories of him were connected too strongly to her synapses, chewing down her soul.

Ada chuckled involuntarily.

"I can't believe I am here arguing here with you like this again", she said and it felt like a genuine statement, "After all this time we should at least be able to discuss the weather or whatever strange things happened at home."

Wesker curled his lips slightly.

"I am afraid I might not be able to contribute to this kind of conversation satisfyingly. It could prove to be quite difficult."

They were both so far away from belonging to the sort of people talking about 'home' it didn't even feel bad to think about it anymore. And additionally the gap between the two of them was too wide to amuse her.

_Where will all those renegades and defects go when the virus kills itself? Where will I go?_

The time of tranquility would end with the day, turning the world upside down and black-and-white-and-blood, as he had called it.

God, how much Ada hated that man.


	3. Beating of a purple heart

**Helloau, people out there. I shall add another chapter of this very slow story and comment on it a bit.**

**It is a very long plotline and constantly in development- there will be dates added at some point, but right now that is not my top priority, so please excuse the rather confusing order of scenes. **

**To what extent the world in this story is damaged will be elaborated later, by the way. Again, it is a very long story and very dear to me. Keep it safe. :)**

**I have seen Jake's campaign of RE6 now and I have to say I enjoyed it to a certain extent. I still think it is a rather cheap development of the plot, but at least it was very well executed in the end. And call me crazy, but for me (No real spoiler here. Was in the trailer.) the strange creature (Ustanak.) following Jake around represents Wesker and the past trying to catch up with him. Here you go, have my thoughts on the matter.**

**Enjoy this kind-of-strange chapter. Will get gory, by the way. Not just yet. Soon.**

* * *

**III: Beating of a purple heart**

His time had come at last. All the struggles would pay off in the end, once this last trap played the missing link into his hands. The test was ready to commence.

It was progress.

He turned over to face the surveillance camera monitor and noted something on a pad of paper he always brought along. The refill of his pen was close to giving up on him, he needed to retrace the words he spilled on the paper more often as time passed.

The test was progress and whatever sacrifice it called for, it was necessary.

The lights were dimmed, much to his liking. The shadows on the walls didn't hide any silhouettes or messages for him; he wasn't the kind of guy to interpret. It wasn't even for his lack of a feeling for art.

The lights on the monitor flickered, as though it wanted to say goodbye and go to sleep already. It wouldn't; naturally, the emergency generator never let it happen. In this kind of business, nothing was left to chance.

It was possible the communication was jammed; however, no one knew he was invading this system. If they did, they wouldn't just shrug it off.

Nobody posed a threat to his organization anymore, he was the one deciding how much they were allowed to know. He loved being so close to the edge of failure; danger of getting caught was only an incentive.

He put down the pen and focused on the screen once more, as though he could change what happened on the stage shown.

It didn't, naturally.

The persons on the screen didn't know they were being observed, they ran around like ants in their rush to please the faceless queen. What they did, however, was less important than when they appeared. Who was at the office early? Who would not leave until the exhaustion took over?

A peculiar sensation spread inside him, one he was slowly getting used to. Blood would start to race in his veins, with every boost his bones resonated.

The monster inside him was growing stronger... and hungrier, by the second.

The people on the screen didn't look like persons anymore. Their shapes strayed, until they were no longer recognizable. Then they weren't human anymore, but breathing, pulsating heaps of flesh.

He stared down at the monitor like a starving beast, his pulse rapid.

He was the predator, born to hunt and tear apart the prey. They would bleed until his avarice was drowned in it.

His breath got heavy as the blood rose up into his eyes. Losing control, he growled gutturally and squeezed the back of his chair until his knuckles almost gave in to the strain.

Every time the monster emerged he found affirmation of his plans in the violence. It wasn't hope the thirst for blood gave him, it was the conviction only a being without alternatives had to offer.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the monster vanished.

He wiped the blood from his eyes and yawned.

"Maybe next time, my friend", he said and noted something.  
Then he reached for the phone and dialed a number he frequently called after these incidents.

There was a split second of silence before he got a response.  
"I want the report on our subjects, number 34 to 40", he ordered after barking a short greeting.

The woman on the phone sneered. "Of course. Anything else?"

"I want to know exactly when we will be able to initiate the trial eventually. Time is getting short and I have to say the development is at a standstill as long as we have no test data on the matter. Once it is administered we can proceed, so actually I intend to start the survey a bit sooner", he replied and tapped his fingers on the table.

"You wanted to get a second opinion on that, I assume."

She started to sound angry.

"I figured you would propose that and I have to disagree. It is too soon, it would get beyond control at this point. The assassination attempt was conducted too early already; another mistake would throw us and them off track."

He smiled to himself.

"We shall wait then... you need to inform them they can't be that careless next time. Chris Redfield may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, any further contradiction in his petty world would still cause him to be suspicious. They need to stay uninvolved."

He ended the call, not expecting an answer.

It didn't matter to him how long he had to wait, acting too early would just spoil it all.

The monster inside him shivered in anticipation.

Everything was going according to plan.

* * *

The gunshots rang out in the narrow hallways. Chris spun around, gun and flashlight in hand and tried to make sense of the pitch-black nothingness around him. Every part he pierced with the beam of light seemed to vanish again after he left off to another space.

"What was that?", a woman to his left asked and seemed to struggle with her fear. Some of the others asked the same and confusion spread with no one able to find an answer. Suggesting and doubting the own statements a moment later was not the solution to their problem.

And then Chris realized they wanted him to find an answer, he was the one in charge, after all. It hurt to think of all the times he had strived to achieve this in his foolish, juvenile ambition and hadn't been able to... and now that he had come this far, it didn't matter anymore.

"I think it came from over there." He said and pointed at the corridor to his left. Actually, he was pretty sure that wasn't the case, but he needed to do something.

_They're but meat... fresh meat as bait for those beasts._

It made him shiver with hatred. If there was another way to resolve the situation, he would welcome even the most drastic plan. But there wasn't and it frustrated him.

He had discussed things with his superior earlier. The B.S.A.A. had only a few, professional agents left to send on a mission like that and most of them were not even around, but dispatched to investigate various other potential terrorist hot spots.

And this mission still held little chance of success; they couldn't risk their best men.

So Chris ended up going to find Jessica with rookies that were expendable. Nobody had said it out loud, but it was obvious to everyone involved... except for the people that followed his lead now, trusting in his abilities and intelligence.

"Miller, you take your team and head there. I will investigate this corridor", he said and tried to sound even more convincing than before. If he sent them away from the greatest danger, than maybe he could finish the mission without any casualties.

A spark of guilt could not be erased by this deduction.

A few years ago, he would've killed anybody sacrificing people for a cause, but now he was certain it was the right thing to do. It wasn't sure they would die, right? There was still a way to get everybody out of here safe, wasn't there?

Miller, a man with exceptional combat skills and a very calm personality, nodded. He had worked with Chris for some time now and they got along well; he was not crazy about his career and still found time to keep an eye on his family.

Maybe that was the reason he would be sent the wrong way.

Miller ordered his team, that was formed by three of the rookies, to follow him; that left Chris with two of the unlucky operatives.

The B.S.A.A. needed a success or nobody would consider supporting them anymore. And when they fell... bioterrorism would eventually turn the world into a giant habitat for tentacle creatures and cannibals.

Chris gritted his teeth and forced his thoughts away from this notion. It wasn't his and would never be.

Miller and his people were gone now, the two remaining rookies shifting uncomfortably, waiting for their indecisive leader to make a move. Chris didn't even know their names and the part of him that still wanted to believe only in ideals told him that was wrong. If he distanced himself too much from them they wouldn't value that much anymore; it seemed cruel, so easy, but cruel.

"Sir, shouldn't we get going?", the woman next to him asked. Her hair was black and short, with a few strands loosely sticking out. Her companion, a younger soldier, had a hard, flat face and sandy brown hair; his nose looked broken.

Chris stopped himself from observing. He couldn't let himself get carried away only because he feared what could happen to them; he needed to move on and avert it.

"Yes, we should, actually", he muttered and shook his head, heading for the corridor on the right.

"Good, this place is giving me the creeps. I wonder what kind of person comes up with these underground places as secret hideouts."

Her friend chuckled. Their nervousness was like a cloud of dust, drying their throats and filling their lungs until they suffocated. In the dark, their faces were like wax, shining until the candle died on them.

"Do you think they'll be alright?"

"Miller is one of the best, he will end this mission before you know it"; Chris replied, the lies leaving his mouth ever so smoothly.

But there was no other way, was there?

Conviction was what drove him onward, even though he could not fully extinguish the doubts. There was a world worth saving and if he had to risk something to establish peace once more, he could do nothing but give his best to succeed.

Without a belief, humans could not exist, he was sure of that.

"I am just worried", the woman went on and it sounded as if she simply kept on talking because she hated the silence, "Last mission I was on was a hostage case and when we split up it all went to hell."

Something curled up in Chris' stomach when she said that. He had been through a variety of things, calamities these rookies could not even dream of, but most of them had occurred to him as surreal. The times in the Air Force, however, followed by his time in the special forces of Raccoon City had been more than real. A few years ago, thinking about it had always put him in a melancholic mood, but now he was able to tell the good and bad memories apart.

_Fun times back then... _

It reminded him he had to call Claire in the next time to make sure she was alright. After he had buried himself in his work they had stopped meeting frequently and he felt guilty for neglecting her. He didn't want to acknowledge to himself that he feared she would not accept his conviction anymore.

"What happened?", the man behind him asked.

The woman hesitated.

"They were killed, all of them. The captors activated a bomb that had been placed in one of the victims intestines and it all blew up- with the other half of my team."

Their voices were like whispers in the dark, even though every word echoed dangerously loud. Chris knew it was the situation; cooped up in narrow corridors with only a flashlight, people began to spread the fear if they didn't do something about it. Even though there was no need to keep quiet they felt like it was more appropriate in their personal nightmare.

Right after their unit had entered the building there had been a power-cut, allowing them to talk now. Jessica knew they were here, probably waiting for them or running away as soon as they approached. A team still secured the entrance, a few more agents stayed near their helicopters. But they weren't enough, clearly.

The underground storage facility was a large one, with several floors they couldn't hope to explore in due time. If Jessica and her team fled, the B.S.A.A. would be left clueless again.

But that would not happen this time, Chris told himself as he dashed forward in a sudden touch of adrenaline boost. A second later, another shot rang out in front of them.

It was his intuition, born from experiencing a troubled past, he knew when riots arose. And with the rush of excitement he smiled to himself for a split second.

_Old, fun times..._

"Save the talk for later and get going!", he ordered his two companions that had already followed him suit. That was a good thing, he recognized, if they were that quick, maybe it wouldn't turn out as bad as he had thought.

The woman mumbled something under her breath as she ran, it sounded as though she was cursing the "old man for going senile".

Chris realized he was the one she was talking about and it surprised him. It was true, he had gotten older and it was likely the two of them were a lot younger than he was... he just didn't see himself as old.

Compared to other people's lives, his was unorthodox, to say the least. He had dedicated himself to the fight against terror; there was just no time for a personal life. But if that was what it cost him, he was willing to pay the price. He had no choice, after all.

As he continued on running down the hallway that seemed endless by the time present, he remembered his superior's promise.

If he succeeded here, he would get support in finding Jill.

A cruel question formed in his mind, like all the times prior he had considered searching for her on his own. _What if Jill simply did not want to be found?_

"Every time I look at you, I see _his_ face", she had said once with a bitter smile. It was obvious she would not go through three years of terror without any emotional scars, but Chris had been left with the naive hope he could make her feel better.

It wouldn't cease to hurt, though. Violence and cruelty could no longer get to him, but disappointment still cut through his protection. Even after years of therapy, he still had trust issues and the rookies he was with today got involved in that.

"There's something up ahead!", the woman yelled and pointed her flashlight at it.

At the end of the hallway was a heavy double-door that could've been taken out of a hospital.

_Or a torture movie... the ones Claire always wanted to keep me away from._

Chris didn't want to think now. He would need to act quick and efficiently if they encountered Jessica's unit soon, any distraction put the mission's outcome at risk.

And with this quick decision made, he pushed himself forward toward the door.

Grabbing the doorknob, checking on his companions, shoving the door open; they were mechanical, swift motions.

They stumbled into the room, breathing heavily after the enduring run.

Chris did not hesitate, though; he raised his gun and followed the barrel's movement with the beam of his flashlight. His heartbeat sped up immediately, matching his quick turns after a while.

Dust danced around him like hysterical children, craving to stay close to him. It was a quiet, damp air that surrounded him. Catching his breath he secured the corners and tried to figure out what room it was they found themselves in. It seemed so large in the dark.

Tables were scattered all over the room, encircled by piles of heavy looking books and files. It looked like somebody's attic, except for the empty coffee mugs and several computers. As Chris looked closer, he noticed there were only old-fashioned monitors; moreover, they had been taken apart. The wires looked like dead worms or spidery fingers separated from the hand with a clean cut.

"What is-", the woman tried to say but was immediately silenced by a muffled metallic sound. It was followed by a loud thud as her body collapsed.

The men hurried to her side, but it was too late. As Chris pointed the flashlight at her he saw the wound on her forehead. A bullet had pierced her skull and blood was still oozing down between her blank eyes.

"A moment ago she had found a file or something!", the man stated angrily and jumped to his feet. Their movements became frantic as they tried to find the attacker in the darkness, but there was nothing to be seen.

"Where have they gone off to?"

It surprised Chris a rookie stayed that calm in a situation like this; just as the suspicion he could be the one shooting crossed his mind, another shot was audible.

The man screamed in pain, but stopped writhing after a few seconds. It was then that the lights went on.

Chris was blinded by the sudden brightness, but still managed to take shelter behind a table before he could get shot as well.

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Redfield." The voice appeared to come from the ceiling; he quickly deduced the attackers were hidden above him and tried to make out the hole they had been shooting through.

Suddenly, a tile that had been part of the ceiling moments before fell down, followed by a man wearing a gas mask.

Chris immediately pointed his gun at him and pulled the trigger- or at least that was what he intended to do as somebody grabbed him from behind and restrained him.

As he struggled to free himself he could briefly glance at his captor- and stared into the insectile eyes of a gas mask as well, reflecting his confused face. Above them was another hole in the ceiling where a tile was missing.

Chris slammed his elbow in the man's stomach and jumped towards his weapon that had fallen down on the ground. In the instant he took hold of it he spun around to shoot the guy.

A machine gun's barrel was slammed down in his face brutally. Blood exploded from his nose and in the moment he was dazed his hands were forced behind his back and cuffed.

Chris panted and felt the blood run into his mouth, spur his vision and he felt like resting his head on the cool floor and make the headache go away.

"Still eager to get yourself in trouble, huh?", a familiar voice asked and chuckled softly. As he was forced to roll on his back he saw the matching face and felt like he was teleported back in time.

The years hadn't gone easy on Jessica as well, she looked tired and her smile was thin as she pulled the gas mask from her face. But it wasn't only her appearance, rather the tone in her voice that made Chris realize it wasn't his old partner anymore.

"I'm trying my best not to...", he growled and tried to get away, "But you stupid fuck-ups always decide to go all megalomaniac someday."

She laughed his insults off, probably because she knew full-well he was angry at her mostly for deceiving him, not his ideals.

_I wonder... if I had agreed on dating her, would we have ended up here?_

"Don't worry; we have no intention of harming you. At least not for now:"

"You send us here, right?", he spat and tried to kick her in vain, "But what for? What do you want?"

There was no meaning in his words; they did not carry any message. When he was younger, Claire had always told him he was upfront to breaking point, but it seemed that was gone now.

Chris knew he avoided to talk to her because he feared she would no longer recognize him.

"Why would I do something as stupid as that, Chris-dear?", Jessica asked and gestured one of the gas masks to do something. What this task was, however, Chris could not see.

"Don't play dumb now!", he yelled and felt the sore parts on his wrists sting. The cuffs cut into his skin and it didn't help he was forced to lay on them. As Jessica did not reply, he continued.

"What is wrong with you? I thought you joined the B.S.A.A. for-"

She kicked him in the stomach without ever stopping to smile, her eyes cold. If there had ever existed feelings for him, they were definitely gone now. The realization hit him with a rush of guilt. Of course she couldn't blame him, but he had to take at least some responsibility. He was not so sure anymore.

"Do me a favor and be quiet now, honey, we have bigger problems than your whining about good and evil could ever produce. We'll discuss that later, now you will answer a few of my question, 'kay?"

As he was roughly pulled up he knew he was forced to cooperate. Even if Jessica was no match for him, there were still five other machine guns he had to consider. Even if their owners weren't trained soldiers, he would stand no chance.

Then they shoved him down a corridor, always keeping him in front of them. Chris didn't know if they simply wanted to control his movement or rather a shield for bullets if they encountered other agents in here.

_God, Wakefield... I'm gonna give you a piece of my mind once I get out of here. I knew it was a goddamn trap. _

"So, how did you get here and how many more of you are there in the area?", Jessica asked and it sounded as though she was quite far away.

"There are five of us here, including myself", Chris lied without even giving it a second thought, "Two men stayed at the helicopter and the other two... well, you should know what happened to them."

Something hit his head hard and he stumbled a few steps before he managed to stand straight again.

"We know there are more", Jessica simply stated, "And as for your dead friends... they were bad people, weren't they? They tried to kill me, after all."

Chris growled something under his breath he didn't even want to understand himself. He would never get her to come to her senses; he had seen it in her eyes. Maybe it was the power she held now or the conviction they had forced into her head, but she would not back down, rather die.

Chris looked around the corridors they crossed. What if they ran into the other B.S.A.A. members? Miller should've figured out he had been misdirected completely.

His throat burned and his eyes stung with dust. Everything looked so... unused and yet Jessica and her people were here.

"How long have you been here?"; Chris asked and promptly received another hit to the head.

"We're the ones asking questions here!", a man with a nervous voice shouted. The fact it was audible even through the gas mask didn't exactly reassure Chris. He also had an australian accent and as he reached down to pull his captive up, his hands were shaking.

It was then that Chris realized those people weren't soldiers at all, maybe except for Jessica. Something had scared them to do this, even the common staff; that meant they hadn't expected the B.S.A.A. to arrive. Whatever the reason was, there was somebody else around trying to kill their people as well.

_They keep me alive so they can negotiate with my people... so that they get out of here alive. But that won't work; we weren't even here to kill people. Whoever attacks Jessica here will probably just kill me first and then everyone else involved._

"Listen, Jessica, I'm not-"

"Shut up!", the nervous non-soldier screamed at him and slammed his weapon on Chris' head.

The world succumbed to the pain instantly as his body hit the floor. Coppery flavor overcame his senses and as Chris licked his dry lips, the flesh felt too stiff to belong to him. It was all but a swirl of black and white, with voices screaming, fire burning, storms rising...

And then there were shots ringing out on the edges of his mind.

Jessica screamed at somebody.

_Breathe, goddamn._

Chris sucked in air desperately and tasted blood. He swallowed and there was nothing else anymore, until his headache seemed too strong to endure.

He didn't think, just breathe, live, breathe, survive.

And then he struggled to get up, not moving at all; instead, he burst through the thick cloud of numbness.

It was only a split second of reality, but it was enough to let his jaw drop in disbelief and his pulse race with anger.

"I killed you." It was barely audible but he was sure the man would understand. "I fucking killed you and you play fucking Jesus again." He used insults as a replacement for the strength of his voice, expressing some of the hatred he still felt.

"Why can't you just stay in hell and leave me alone?"

"In hell, old friend, is nothing left for me to fear", Wesker responded quietly, calm as a clock.

_Just ticking, ticking, ticking... never to stop._

And then it all went black.

* * *

The man with the shades looked down at Chris' motionless body.

"What did you inject him with?", he asked devoid of all emotion. The woman in the red dress that stood beside him smiled briefly and brushed against his shoulder with her hand.

"Do not worry too much, it will not hurt him. If you are that concerned, maybe we should wait with this until he wakes up?", she mocked and stepped towards the Ataraxis people then.

As he turned to face her, her arrogant glare traced the outlines of her chin. Of course the woman knew he could kill her in an instant, it was just a way for her to test her limits.

Looking at Chris, however, made Wesker remember what he had come back for. People like this self-proclaimed idealist chained him to the world with their stupidity- he needed to do something about it.

Vengeance, the voices demanded, spill his blood, stop his heart from beating.

But Wesker controlled himself. The anger was only a shadow of what it used to be, it was gone almost completely. It gnawed at him, as though it was only a shenanigan of fate. After all, he had every reason to be seething with rage... how could it vanish now?

"Who are you?", the woman that had been with the gas masked guys asked. Her companions were lying on the ground around her, torn apart and incomplete.

Before she could continue, his weapon was pointed at her head.

"I entirely dislike to point out the obvious, Miss Sherawat."

She didn't respond.

Weskers mind, however, feasted on her shock, he wanted to cherish it with every word he formed, with each motion of his tongue. It built a construct so easily trapping those he entangled.

"What have you been sent for?", Jessica asked.

It pleased him she did not ask his reason for being alive. Well, it caused him not to kill her right away.

"It is just a minor issue, you shouldn't make haste and deal with it right away" Ada purred and raised her gun as well. She didn't stand too close to him as though she expected him to chop off her leg any second, watching her crawl like a vermin.

Indeed, her whole pretending captivated him.

How could she be so easily fooled? Was it because she, as a human, _wanted _to believe?

Wesker was naturally fascinated by what he could not understand. Emotional connections were impossible for him to grasp, the much he was able to mimic them.

She was the mechanical woman, driven by this clockwork inside her body, pushing her forward even though her mind was corrupted.

"So, if you refrain from playing any hero tricks, it will all end well". Ada lied with the most genuine smile on her face. Wesker adored the crookedness in those words.

_It will all end well... everything's going to be alright... what a beautiful fake promise._

Jessica stared at Ada now, demanding answers to questions she didn't even know.

He heard her breathing, sucking in and wasting oxygen on herself.

Wesker left the talking to Ada and knelt down beside Chris.

The pulse still raced in the unconscious man and he hated every second of it. Like the blood circulating in a human vessel Wesker now felt the anger rush through him in its ghostly way.

The mortal soldier had tried to oppose fate and interfere with the powers of a god and he... had succeeded.

Why?, Wesker asked himself, How? How could somebody, _something_, like this possibly overcome true power?

Now he was lying on the ground, a broken hero, but a hero nevertheless to the abominable creatures of his kind. And with every second that clicked away it drew another breath, consuming the world whole.

Chris looked battered and broken, but still determined- he seemed frail and indestructible nonetheless.

Wesker wanted to kill him, if he just extended one arm, scratching his name into his nemesis' face, tearing off the features to never see them again.

"Wesker!", Ada ordered him, "Redfield is not our target this time. Restrain Miss Sherawat instead and-"

"A personal target or not, Chris Redfield should not be left here without something stopping him from causing trouble. I recommend killing him, the sooner, the better."

Wesker pulled out a knife from his pocket. He could just end it, a quick stab in the throat or a torture not needlessly prolonged... so how come it wasn't enough?

Wesker stared down at his nemesis, the vigilante with his reckless, imbecile views and felt only uneasy.

He realized, as he tasted the blood on his lips and froze.

It was anxiety that drove him to do this...

He wanted to sever somebody; it just wasn't possible for somebody like him. He wanted the power to flow to his veins and his only. He wanted it to _stop_.

Chris had defeated him- so how could he possibly claim he was flawless?

Wesker hated the man with all he got left, but he knew this was not the way he wanted it to end.

In Chris thoughts were probably other assumptions and plans now... _dreams_, of a better world.

_You'll get your perfect world soon enough, old friend. I will not fail a second time._

Jessica caught him off guard as she assaulted him, throwing him onto the ground and landing on top of him.

One of her companions stormed out of the corridor and went to attack Ada, but Wesker knew she could handle it. He was far more intrigued by the opportunity to kill another one of Chris' partners; or at least somebody he held dear. That was by far surpassing the possibility of just killing him.

He threw Jessica off him with a kick in the stomach and jumped to his feet almost in one swift motion. Dashing over at her he grabbed her throat and squeezed hard enough to damage her trachea. Asphyxiation meant pain and despair for the victim, Wesker knew that all to well.

She continued to fight him, to no avail. That was when she looked over at her friend and waved her hand painstakingly.

Apparently they had figured something like that could happen. The detonation pushed Wesker forward against the wall, before the ground collapsed under his feet.

His pulse slowed down as he fell.

* * *

Chris woke up with a heavy headache. He moaned in pain and buried his face in his hands. He closed his eyes and felt the aching subside slowly.

Suddenly he remembered he had had his hand cuffed behind his back before- who had freed him?

Rubbing his wrist he climbed to his feet and almost stumbled into a giant hole that cut the room in half. It looked as though something exploded right before his eyes, but he couldn't remember...

_Wesker._

It felt as though he had run right into a brick wall. But now that he thought about it, it seemed so impossible- and he had had hallucinations like that before. Albeit they had been only weeks after the events in Kijuju, they had included Wesker as well- killing Chris' friends, family and finally everyone on the planet.

So what if they simply came back due to the dizziness the pain had put him through? Any other explanation included the fact Wesker was alive.

The thought cleared Chris' mind.  
Whatever happened, it wasn't important right now. He needed to investigate where the hole in the ground led to and what happened to Jessica. The top priority of the mission was to take her into custody.

His flashlight was gone and the only light came from down below. Apparently somebody had taken the time to take his radio equipment, so he had no chance but to go down.

As he tried to climb down in a slow, careful fashion, he noticed how close he had been to dying. Maybe it was recklessness that could be explained by the confusion the doubts had caused, but it was still dangerous. Trapped between case files for quite some time he hadn't been able to really undergo any training; after several month without practice he now struggled with the most common tasks in combat.

Chris knew the lack of experience was getting worse when he felt the small rock concrete that had been part of the ground before crumble beneath his feet.

His attempt to approach the lower level slowly was foiled as he fell down. It was a short fall, probably five meters, but he managed to roll over in mid-air. His arms hurt terribly as he broke the fall with them. Little, sharp pebbles cut into the soft flesh of his hands, but this time he was prepared not to be distracted.

Chris immediately jumped to his feet, ready to dodge potential attacks or bullets right away. But there was nobody to be seen; or rather nobody that posed a threat anymore. The earth had been drowned in blood and by the amount of inner organs that were scattered across the whole area; he immediately figured there had indeed been a bomb.

He stepped over a torso and tried to find any clue as to where he was. Somewhere deep down he knew all of this was wrong, that a sight like this should make him vomit and cry until there was nothing left of him, but he found himself unable to feel anything. It was a protective mechanism of his mind to keep sane and he had grown accustomed to it. Someday between one nightmare and another he had gotten numb to all the violence, he only craved to find the bastards responsible for it. And in situations like this he was glad it didn't get to him anymore. If it did, he would go crazy in a heartbeat.

The explosion had been small, though, the damage had not affected the stability of the upper floor, except for the hole in the ground there was no sign of collapsing.

Chris examined his surroundings and presumed it was part of an underground cave complex; it seemed to be still in its natural state. The ceiling was supported by trusty-looking pillars and Chris decided that was all he needed to know.

There was but one way to go, another path leading back up. However, the light did not reach that far- darkness invaded the alley and he knew it would be plain stupid to walk in without any light source.

Looking at the ground made him wonder for the first time how this area could be lit up; he noticed a flashlight on the ground. As much he was rejoiced at the news, this object of desire was covered in gore and rests of flesh that even seemed to be ulcerating. Chris was no medic, but he knew that heavy burns could cause the suppurating- or something of the sort. Claire had explained it to him once, but he hadn't exactly paid attention. Additionally, this wasn't the time for medical examinations.

With a decent repulsion for the coating, he picked up the flashlight.

_I just hope it doesn't give up on me any time soon... _

The light still gave him confidence, there was something about it that reminded him of his childhood, exploring his town at night with other kids. Back in the days he had wanted to become a pilot- how far he had come by now.

The memory of his dead companions let the smile on his face fade, though. He would have to take responsibility for that later; but not without telling Wakefield of the infinite falseness of a mission like this.

_Jill would've talked me out of this, probably. No use in dwelling on that, though._

Thinking about her still hurt.

"Hello?", a voice called out from the shadows the flashlight beam did not yet reach.

Chris' mind worked quickly, he began to jog towards the other man without hesitation. He recognized the voice, it was one of Miller's rookies- and he felt guilty to be surprised he was still alive.

"Who's there?"

Chris aimed the light beam at a junction and noticed the left path was illuminated by something. As he turned the corner he saw a man lying on the ground, one hand pressed to his chest. It was obvious he had been injured, probably by a bullet.

Chris knelt down beside him.

"It's me"; he simply said and looked around then, "What happened here?"

The man swallowed hard and grimaced in pain.

"I got separated from my team and ended up in this corridor", he began to explain and his hoarse voice somehow reminded Chris of a ghost story being told at a bonfire, "But before I could even start to investigate anything, I saw this collapsed part of the tunnel. When I got closer, I saw there were two people, so I approached them."

He stopped and clutched his chest with his hand. There wasn't so much blood, though- Chris hoped it had been a graze shot.

"There was this man lying on the ground and our target, pointing her weapon at him. I told her to freeze, but she started to scream at me, just some crazy stuff and suddenly pulled out a knife. She wanted to chop this guy's head off, so I shot her in the leg-"

Chris interrupted him.

"What did the man look like?", he asked harshly and felt the urge to grab and shake the rookie.

"How is that important? I mean-"

"Just listen. He wore all black and sunglasses, didn't he?"

Chris knew he was overreacting but this was too much for him. The last five years he had been on therapy to cope with everything that had happened- and now it was supposed to happen all over again?

"I- I can't remember, I mean, maybe he did, but I can't say for sure. What the hell is wrong with you anyway? Do you want me to tell you what happened or what?", the man said in an annoyed tone.

Chris just nodded and tried to focus.

_Not again... please, this must be a big misunderstanding or something..._

"The woman was limping, but she still managed to run past me. But when I turned to look at this guy's wounds again, he was already up on his feet. He dashed after our target and when I followed them she shot me after I pursued her around the corner here. I got no clue what happened to the man, though. Might as well be lying around here too."

"So where did she go after that?", Chris asked hastily, already reaching out for the man's gun. He had to find Jessica.

The rookie pointed to his left.

"Just be careful, Sir, she could be waiting somewhere to take you down." His voice suddenly cracked as though he remembered something terrible.

"Wait!", he suddenly demanded a lot louder and grabbed Chris' sleeve with his free hand, "You're just going to _leave_ me here after you took my gun? What if they come back? I'll be completely drained of blood if nobody treats the wound and-"

"Listen", Chris replied, "I'll take care of Jessica first and then I come back to get you out. You can't walk in that state and I can't carry you."

The rookie shook his head.

"If I lean on you, I can walk. I'd rather bleed to death on the way outside than here in some fucked-up tunnel."

Chris knew he had no time to argue, or he'd never catch up with Jessica. It was very likely it was already too late, so he could at least save the rookie.

He was wrong, again.

They had only walked- or rather stumbled- a hundred meters when he saw the body.

Unlike any of the corpses he had seen this day, this one was clearly killed in a fashion he had never seen before.

"God, is that her?", the rookie muttered and he looked as though he wanted to go back in the tunnel immediately.

Chris did not have to answer. The head had been severed from the body, as though it was meant to be kept in a recognizable state. Apart from that, it didn't seem to be human anymore. Chris felt himself close to fainting as he remembered that other day, that day that had changed it all... those thirty years had drifted by way too fast. But he could still remember how the sun had been so warm, the beautiful day making fun of him and his crying, traumatized sister.

He closed his eyes and pushed himself forward, forcing the rookie to pass the remains of Jessica.

_I am sorry it had to end like this... I will keep in you in good memory, partner, whatever you've done._

"Shit... what kind of person could possibly do that?"

Chris was at a loss for words, he was not sure what to think anymore. From the very beginning he had known he would end up killing Jessica some way or other- but not like this. He still couldn't forget how they'd worked together and saved each others lives; he couldn't pretend that hadn't happened.

But then the realization of what his companion had said sunk in and he suddenly felt only cold.

There was no way somebody of their team had done this; no normal person had the strength to tear a body apart like this.

Wesker had to be alive; he was the only one he could imagine doing something like this. Still, he had never been this brutal- what if Chris only jumped to conclusions because that was the explanation he was afraid of?

"Let's get out of here", he said quietly and deep in thoughts.

Their way back was a silent one.


	4. Their Eyes

**Hey there. This is me once more, with another chapter of this strange story that I dedicated to character development. I love analyzing Resident Evil's cast and here I go again.**

**This was written before the announcement of RE6, btw, and if you read it you will know why that is kind of creepy. And yes, that Avengers reference belongs right there. Right. There.**

* * *

**IV: Their Eyes**

"The detonation will go off in a few minutes. It's still possible they don't get to evacuate all their agents."

"You cannot truly hope to defeat Chris Redfield like that", Wesker growled and tried to wipe his face clean with his sleeve. It did not help, though, his clothing was as blood-soaked as his skin.

"So, he has this cockroach attitude as well? No matter how often you two get stomped dead you get up again, huh?", Ada said and looked at him briefly, "You look like Hannibal Lector. Are you sure you didn't eat her?"

Even though she joked about it still frightened her to see him drenched with blood of his latest victim.

Wesker smirked voidly and shook his head then.

"To be honest", he lied, "I only shot her. It seems she had one of these explosives in her body as well and tried to take me with her. Chris will enjoy it, though, it should bring back memories."

Ada eyed him suspiciously.  
"You did this before?"

"His parents suffered a similar fate, I believe", Wesker said and it didn't sound merciful in the least.

Ada wondered how deep his hatred actually reached; she had never held a grudge like this. And once she realized how dangerous and infinite his loathing was, she feared he could feel the same for her. It was nothing she could guess by looking into his eyes and it was nothing she wanted to know. Countless ghosts haunted her dreams already; there was no need to add a few more.

And even though she desperately wanted to ask him how his thoughts had become so twisted, she knew that the answer would not come close to the truth.

The files she had read were just another lie; it appeared as though Wesker had done an admirable job in destroying all evidence of his past. Ada wished she would be able to do so as well; but there was always a hole information leaked through and now it felt as though her nightmares were exposed to the world.

She chuckled involuntarily and pushed strands of her hair away from her face.

_Somebody will appreciate your doings and your strain, they said, somebody will see through your protective shell. _

"I didn't think you were the type to tell family secrets to", she said and felt like watching herself talking from far above the scene. Everything was so plastic and faked, even the truth felt wrong when she shared it with him.

"Although I heard sociopaths were familiar with faking emotions, so it might be a fascinating experience", she added and laughed again. Ada wasn't happy at all; her mind was set on other things.

She had conquered her fears already, now she was walking the satisfyingly thin line she knew so well to keep them caged. Who she really wanted to talk with was the man she trusted and once had feelings for, the one out of her reach.

But thinking about him still hurt; it was the way he would ask her for her reasons that got stuck in her mind. If emotions were painful, she needed to accept and get over them. Repression only led to a stronger result, once all the grief was bundled up and bent on vengeance.

"I am a versatile man, dear", Wesker sneered without losing his dead-serious expression, "But I do recall you were averse to telling me _your_ story earlier."

They sat in the back of a helicopter and it was impossible for her to get away now. His words made her feel so small and soft like the butterfly he compared her with; so easy to be broken and stopped. Never in her life had she felt colder than in these moments- he simply ensured she was aware of how much he actually knew. It was a promise. One day he would take advantage of this knowledge and he wanted to let her know.

Their pilot kept silent as well, she was obviously listening, though. Ada had noticed the way she had looked at them when they entered- she was an observer, a watcher over both the tyrant and the butterfly. But whenever she witnessed a failure, she would also be the judge and the executioner to _punish the unjust_.

"Do you think so?", she replied casually and yawned, "So we share more than our excellent sense of humor."

Being defiant did not help her, but it was all she could do to preserve her sanity. And she knew when she almost exceeded the limit and needed to stop. Some people wouldn't notice the subtle change in Wesker's attitude when the conversation neared a sensitive subject- there weren't so many things that got to him anymore. It was the way he raised his chin the slightest of bits as though he wanted to appear taller than he was already.

But now he seemed relaxed, looking at her from the other side of the helicopter with his head tilted and a smirk already receding as if it hurt to keep it up any longer. Wesker was like a rabid animal and Ada knew she had to treat him as one; his actions were unpredictable and so were his intentions. With time she grew tired of always watching her back, she hated the way she had to watch every word she said.

But she wasn't given the opportunity to decide for herself to just give this up; a wrong word here would feed her body to the undead.

"I have been brutally honest with you all my life; it wasn't for a lack of trying I did not succeed and end your misery sooner." Wesker meant what he said and that was what worried Ada the most.

"You are such a dedicated person. How come you remained single until now?", she asked, her voice soaked with sarcasm.

"You know, dear, a major flaw of mankind is their habit to jump to conclusions." He couldn't hide his amusement and it took her awhile to understand what he implied.

But Ada was certain he was just messing with her, there was no way somebody like him was able to establish a long-term relationship... it was impossible. The doubts, however, were not so sure; they kept bugging her with their low, nagging voices.

_He's just saying that to remind me of Leon... he's trying to make me feel even worse about all this..._

"Dear, do not raise themes you cannot endure, you are bound to lose whatever game you start", Wesker added then, in a colder manner.

Ada smiled and shook her head.

"Everything's just a game for you, eh?", she asked but she knew an honest answer was beyond him, "But you're not the one pulling the strings. You've never truly been."

"If it is a game, I can succeed, even if I am only participating."

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.

"And I _will_ succeed." It was no empty promise this time. Even if he wouldn't be able to execute his plans in the end, Ada knew he wouldn't stop. Wesker was obstinate like a predator that had caught its prey and would not stop the biting until the last movement faded.

She stared at him and couldn't believe he actually sat here with her, introducing his vicious anger into her world. How could he possibly believe she of all people would understand?

"Why are you so eager to _win_?", she suddenly asked and for the first time she was genuinely interested in the contradiction he was, "And what is it you will get?"

Wesker didn't wear his sunglasses, so she saw his eyes as he stared at her for once. There was something about the icy cold pupils that seemed to pierce her very being when she tried to oppose him. No matter how often he looked at her like this, she didn't get used to it. If it wasn't Wesker, she would've figured he had some cruel interest in her, but she had seen his eyes. He wasn't interested in anyone despite himself, he saw everyone else as tools, not as persons. And there was no doubt he would throw every one of them away as soon as they were needed no longer. A cycle had begun with his first kill and could not be evaded unless he stopped moving.

Her question seemed to linger in the air and she felt stupid for posing it in the first place. As the devil it was likely he did not apprehend it, for her motivation was incomprehensible in his view.

"You will not understand."

It was a poor excuse, but she knew he had to make it. Neither of them could afford to tell their story to someone who could make use of it. However, it showed Ada he was aware of his unfortunate situation; a lie would only provoke the Organization to reveal some true facts of his past.

Ada was tempted to ask him for more than just subterfuges, but this was not the time and place for it. Someday, maybe, she would continue. Someday, when all of this was nothing but a memory of days worse than death, and both of them were still alive, she would build up her courage to ask again.

Wesker started massaging his temples and looked down. It seemed he took her silence as an affirmation she had given it up already, now focusing on whatever remnant there was of his human weakness.

Ada decided to give him some rest from their talk; he didn't look all too well. But that was nothing she needed to worry about, his problems were better off staying only his.

Instead of excruciating herself with any more observations, she decided to get up and join their pilot for a conversation less exasperating.

The woman gave her a quick acknowledging nod and kept quiet as Ada sat down next to her in the co-pilot's seat. Due to the short distance they had to fly the Organization had kept the number of dispatched agents low.

"I assume your mission was a success."

The pilot's voice was professional and not hinting any sarcasm. Still, behind her cool facade was something else and it made Ada question her decision of changing conversational partners.

The woman had her dark brown hair pinned-up, combined with her black-rimmed glasses it made her look a lot younger than she probably was. Her whole appearance seemed off to Ada, as if it was only a masquerade for carnival.

"We took care of the target and her unit."

"I sense a 'but'", the pilot replied without ever looking away from the front window.

"One of the B.S.A.A. operatives has most likely recognized Wesker. That interferes with the plan to blame the incident on the Ataraxis people."

"You did not kill the person in question?"

Ada smiled weakly.

"You should ask Wesker himself on that account. I had to set the timer for the explosives; he was supposed to deal with the rest of their people."

The pilot looked at her for the first time and she seemed to be mildly amused.

"Chris Redfield seems to be of particular interest to Mr. Wesker, but if it is only him that is aware of our involvement, there is nothing to worry about. His people will simply believe he suffered a relapse of his delusions."

She was convinced of what she said, Ada had to give her that much.

"So he has been on therapy already after what happened in Africa? That's almost too easy."

"Yes, we have access to his medical reports", the pilot explained casually, "He has been diagnosed with PTSD quite some time ago. He will probably either deny he has seen Mr. Wesker or be too afraid to mention it. If he does tell somebody, they will not believe him and claim the symptoms are returning. Apparently he has had similar mental collapses in the past."

Adas smile faded. It wasn't the perfect time to express her sympathy for Chris Redfield now that he was on the Organization's list; but the fact that he had been severely damaged by the events he had endured was easily comprehensible.

Nightmares were no unknown territory for her, after all.

The bitter taste in her mouth was enough to know killing the man would be a problem. Then again, it was most likely she wouldn't be the one to pull the trigger.

Protecting Leon had become difficult over the years, as an operative of the government he posed a threat; but a few months ago he had quit his job, apparently leaving the world of bioterrorism forever. Now he was dangerous no more, if he decided to keep quiet about the whole affair, which was something Ada still had to discuss with her superior. The easiest way was to simply dispose of Leon, but even though it had been years since their last meeting she still felt connected to him. And with that came responsibility, she wouldn't let him die like that.

So even if Chris Redfield had her sympathies, she couldn't afford to protect him as well.

"I presume I will have to take care of him, though?", she asked.

The pilot turned to face her and shrugged.

"I am in no position to tell, I am afraid. It is no secret however, Chris Redfield is one of the most wanted B.S.A.A. agents. So, if there is an opportunity, his execution will most likely be authorized."

Ada nodded. She had seen how Wesker had dealt with Jessica Sherawat; there had been no bomb to detonate within her, he had cut off her head with her own knife after ripping out her intestines. If that was what he did to a person he had no grudge against, what would he do to his nemesis?

"The money has been transferred to your account, but Davis wants to talk to you about your employment when we've arrived." The pilot's voice hinted no humor, but Ada knew that any conversation with her superior would only force her to continue sell her soul to the Organization.

She was sick of the woman already, the much she enjoyed the two-faced talking herself it was annoying to deal with.

"I'll go check on Captain America, don't want him to set anything on fire again."

The pilot didn't seem too amused, but she forced a smile and nodded mechanically.

Ada expected to find Wesker staring at her like a maniac, just like she had left him. Of course, nothing was as she expected.

He faced the window and had his back turned on her, which seemed almost like an invitation to kill him. It was a slip-up in his flawless defense and due to his crossed arms it was even worsened. Ignoring his abilities and character, his appearance wasn't excessively threatening. Wesker was only a bit taller than her and more lean than buff; it was his attitude that made him appear dangerous.

"Captain America?", he asked with more than a touch of fatigue. The use of his powers cost him massive amounts of energy and it would take him some time to recover. Davis, her superior, had told her the virus needed to reproduce once Origin was gone.

"I should have known you are not much of a comic reader."

"And not much of an American either, I am afraid", he replied drily and sat down again. Ada was not genuinely surprised; his accent had always made her think rather of a british aristocrat than of any person she had met around here.

She sat down and observed him once more, but this time she was sure the shadows under his eyes had gotten deeper.

"You should get some rest."

Wesker eyed her for a moment and then he laughed. It shocked Ada how genuine it sounded, not affected in the least. It was even scarier than his usual mocking.

"The much I'd like to heed your counsel, dear, I fear I still value my life."

He didn't have to explain it; she knew exactly that it was a wise decision. Falling asleep with agents of the Organization around was plain foolish, even if there was no order to kill Wesker. He couldn't be sure of it and so it was just reasonable he acted this way.

"It's quite simple, you know", she said then, "If you die, I have no function anymore, if I die, it proves you are not reliable. Either way, we would both end up dead at some roadside."

He focused her with his empty eyes and again it seemed as though all the blood had drained from his face. Ada noticed he looked more his age now, she tended to forget he was actually over ten years older than her. Once the virus took over, however, the indication of a weakness would be gone. Once the virus took over, he would be annoyingly perfect again, slick and cold like a block of ice.

"You are not telling me something I do not know."

He sounded, complying with her wish, not angry. He was demanding an exemplification of the matter, something to turn against her. The much their mechanical eyes were focusing him, he was the true machine, always ready to act or escape.

"Albeit you doubt _me_", he continued and sounded amused she had stated the obvious, "I am not the one you truly fear. And although I despise to admit it, you might be better off to concentrate on an anguish I do not cause."

"Oh, so philosophic again, aren't we?", she replied a bit too fast and sat down, "But I do remind you it was no nightmare or criminal that hunted me down in order to slaughter me."

"You betrayed my confidence." It was a completely neutral statement and he did not even try to sound concerned.

"Your confidence? It is quite an intriguing word coming from you. I highly doubt you were ever able to express such a feeling, except maybe the confidence in yourself."

Ada hated the way he pretended to have a reason for killing her; she could not betray a trust nobody placed in her.

Wesker chuckled and closed his eyes for a bit longer than a standard blink.

"I do recall you said something like that when we last met", he said calmly, not yet losing the amused expression, "I wonder how long you will continue with this accusations. The more you pretend you are in a rage, the less believable you get. I do not like to repeat myself, dear, but I seem to be forced to etch it into your memory: I do not care what you or other people think of me, those are opinions of beings of no value."

Ada had gotten used to his arrogance already; it was just an annoying character flaw of his. Too, she had read in his medical report his narcissistic tendencies could be the cause of a low self-esteem he had to compensate for by degrading others.

It made her laugh. The things he did were so contrary to his ideals and he had failed to notice that up until now.

"They say gods do not hate. Does that make you a hypocrite or the devil, I wonder?"

"It makes me the truth", he responded and it scared her to realize he really believed in that, "Whatever faked reasoning you follow due to your weak mind will always be a beautiful lie; my very being proves it is."

Ada read his statement as an egomaniac proclamation of his preeminence; it was only after a few years she realized that was wrong.

She folded her hands and shook her head in a pitying motion.

"You're like a cornered dog, you just bite, bite, bite. You want to see the world burn, that's it."

Wesker seemed to be slightly disappointed as he looked at her and only years later, when she realized he had been talking about the evil of humankind he was the proof for, she would find the reason for it.

Then he sneered.

"Oh, such a naive, american reasoning. To declare I am a devil or a dog or a monster- that excuses you to query your own views, doesn't it." It was no question. In a statement like that should be bitterness, Ada believed, but there wasn't if he said it. He wasn't surprised she did not understand him and even though he judged her for it he did not seem to see he was the same. What he called "humanity" or simply "humans" was only ridiculous to him for no reason, excusing him to consider their beliefs.

"I do not question insanity", Ada said, "Neither do I doubt a madmen's conviction."

"You flatter me. Humans tend to address me as 'empty', a conviction is more than most expect I own."

Their talks were like a shallow dance of the condemned, like ghosts that could not be grasped, always missing each other by an inch, no matter how hard they tried to communicate.

"Though you will not comprehend the meaning of this word as the survivor you are, I am afraid", he added as if to prove her right.

Ada laughed almost hysterically.

"And again you bite, 'lil dog, again you scream and hate and bite no matter who is listening", she whispered slowly.

He kept silent.

He stared.

He smirked.

"I would welcome your reasoning. Prove me wrong", he replied and there was something in his stare that seemed out of place.  
Ada needed a moment to realize he faked his amusement this time.

"Not yet, my dear"; she said, "I'll tell you somewhere, someday, if the accident will."

He did not reply, but turned his head the slightest bit to look out of the window behind her. Ada wasn't sure if he simply didn't bother replying or didn't have an answer, but she decided to make use of it.

When she got up, walked over to him and sat down beside him, it was probably an intrusion of his personal space. However, she did not intend to show disrespect or defiance this time, it just wouldn't benefit her if he ruined his health and decreased his value.

Ada hugged her legs to her and rested her head on her knees. The fabric of her combat pants felt soft on her skin, as though it wanted to comfort her.  
Wesker, however, looked less relaxed, it was like every muscle of his body was tensed; he was ready to jump to his feet and kill someone if he had to. A few years ago he had compensated for that by being incredibly aggressive; now it seemed the infinite rage of his was gone and he did not know how to deal with the strain.

_Yeah... this world is not ready for him. Or maybe he is not ready for the world. _

"Sooner or later you will have to give in to the exhaustion", she said soothingly and tried to make it sound comforting. Once the Organization decided how to make use of Wesker she'd be stuck with him, so she could at least try and keep him in a decent condition.

He did not reply, but she was sure he listened. After all, he was the one that had to, he had to collect every bit of information to estimate the situation and fight back.

And she felt a brief spark of pity for him that was extinguished soon enough. Even though he was so much better than her, so much closer to the heavens, she knew one of his well-guarded secrets for once.

"What is it that haunts you after all this?", she asked quietly and hugged her legs even tighter to her body. She wasn't the one to ask him, she suddenly realized. Of course that had never stopped her, but now it first occurred to her he had no reason to trust her and answer. So why didn't he bite this time? Why did he have to keep so quiet?

"It's there in the dream, right?", she continued and it was nothing more than a whisper.

He watched her and Ada craved for a sign she was right. If he just nodded, a short, simple move of the head, it would all make sense to her. If he just affirmed his dreams were the same, it would be so much easier.

Wesker sneered.

"So it goes, dear, but that is what makes them dreams. They're not real."

And with that, the short glimpse of pity was gone and fear took its place. Ada needed to escape from this talk now, before he got closer to her nightmares again, taunting her anguish and moving on with his life while she was locked in place.

She cleared her throat and forced a serious expression on her face.

"Why didn't you kill Chris Redfield when you had the chance?"

Her question let the amused semblance spread on his features, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"Did I have to? I remember you asked me to spare his life. You gave me the freedom to obey and I made use of it", he mocked and she almost expected his tongue to be forked as he opened his mouth.

"I do not intend to spare his life another time."

"So he'll end up gutted on the roadside as well. It seems we all suffer the same fate", Ada said sarcastically.

Wesker closed his eyes and the corners of his mouth twitched again.

He wasn't laughing this time.

* * *

"You can't possibly say it was a success! We lost one of our agents and our subject died before any interrogation could take place, how is that successful?"

Chris knew he was overreacting, but he felt as though his superior wanted to reduce their accountability. Wakefield told him that at least an incident like the bomb assassination had been prevented and it wasn't Chris' fault- however, it didn't make him feel less responsible. There was no reason to pity himself; however, the rookies that had been shot by Jessica were either dead or in a coma. Rachel, the woman that had accompanied him on the mission, had immediately died after receiving a bullet to the brain. Her friend, who had been with Chris as well, had still not woken up and it still looked doubtful if he'd ever recover.  
It had been one of the first things for Chris to discretely find out their names; it didn't make his irresponsibility less significant, but to him it had felt like a duty. Rachel and Timothy had been dating. They had wanted to marry. Now both of them were going to die, as simple as that.

"Listen, Redfield, 'cause I won't repeat it for you", John Wakefield said, the veins on his neck already swollen, "You think you're the only one to feel guilty like that? It's not you taking responsibility, it's not you who has to call her parents and tell them her daughter will never come home."

No matter what he was talking about, his voice was always loud and angry, with an unnervingly convinced quality.

"And whatever you want to blame on me: You were the one to advice your team to split up, Miller has informed me. What did you think, goddamn, you of all people should know what happens if you try to apprehend a criminal with only a few people as back-up!"  
Wakefield was right and that was what annoyed Chris. If he had kept all of them together, however, they would've been shot as well, like slaughter cattle constipated for an execution commando.

"They stood no chance! I wanted to at least save someone; did _you_ want them to just get butchered as it happened with those two?", he spat and suddenly felt the rage cease. It wasn't important anymore, he had to cope with the responsibility and not deny it.

All the screaming drained him of strength, he didn't want any of this now.

Chris shook his head and let himself slump down into a chair.

Right after he had returned from his mission he had been ordered into his superior's office and now he had spent over an hour discussing the killing of his old partner.

_Jessica..._

Somewhere in his mind was the faint memory of their short partnership and the trust established and now lost- it was only now he felt the sorrow take effect. People used him and lied to him just like that, without a second thought and even Jessica had been no more than a terrorist. But why, Chris asked himself, what was it she had seen in this other organization to sell her soul for? He had gone through all possible scenarios in his head, like he always did. Jessica could've been threatened to work with them or needed the money, she could've been tricked or bribed or... But no matter what the reason, she had deceived him and all his deductions ended with this conclusion.

He knew, though, he was so deeply frightened by it because it seemed Jill had taken the same course- what if one day she would stab his back like this, with her deceptive affection as a disguise?

"I am not your enemy here, Chris, I will have to account for your failure as well. So think before you open your mouth"; Wakefield said and turned away. He walked over to his desk and sat down behind it- his chair was probably more comfortable than any other in the office. Whenever he sat down in it, Chris was involuntarily reminded of some movie evil overlord throwing back his head and laughing in a maniacal high tone. He had met people like that over the years.

"Yeah, right. So what will it be this time? Suspension?"

He had to be defiant like this, it was a habit, a bad one, that was. Claire always mocked him for it, even though she acted almost the same way. Something in their genes was forcing them not to cope with superiors. His sister had never been suspended from work, though, she had more subtle ways to insult someone then he had.

Wakefield faced Chris and there was no sign of humor in his eyes. He was no bad boss, there had definitely been worse, but he was never joking about anything while being at work. Somewhere, in a different world than this one dedicated to justice he had two kids, but those were so far away Chris wondered if his superior ever remembered.

"Yes, you will be on suspension for a month again. Go and search your girlfriend before you go crazy over that. I cannot afford you to lose track of your mission's goal once more. So do whatever you have to do and then get back to your job", Wakefield replied and gestured him to leave.

And that was it. It always ended like this, Chris got thrown out and returned a few weeks later. He had encountered these measures at S.T.A.R.S. already and had gotten used to it. The B.S.A.A. couldn't afford to lose him, after all, so they decided to let him be. Wakefield knew of Chris' past with PTSD and he had to make sure it didn't get to control his operative again.

That was one of the main reasons he still didn't know Albert Wesker was alive. Another one would be the simple fact he would not believe it.

Chris still wasn't sure if he had seen his old nemesis or another hallucination, but there had been something about their latest encounter that had seemed out of the ordinary. All of his prior meetings with Wesker had seemed so real, this one... had felt like a nightmare. So what if this one time that the delusions hadn't been there to make him actually believe in it, it _was_ real?

"One last thing"; Chris said and he knew it was no good idea to keep Wakefield from his paperwork. If there was one person enjoying writing those, it was him.

"Yes?"

"It worked out too well for the people killing Jessica and her companions. Something scared them before we arrived, there were scientists and normal staff among the people attacking me. So, if they didn't know we were coming, who called us? And what did they want to accomplish?", Chris asked and he knew he was trying to tell his superior of Wesker's involvement without actually saying it.

Wakefield stared at him as though there was nothing more obvious than the answer to that question.

"We are investigating this already- but it is pretty obvious one of their rivals interacted. They were lured there as well as our men were", he started and frowned, "But this is not of your concern right now. This is not your case anymore."

Chris felt himself get even dizzier than before. He hadn't eaten in quite some time and was probably slightly dehydrated as well, but that didn't cause the headaches. Something went wrong in the B.S.A.A. too, not only with Jessica's organization and the biological weaponry in the world. During the mission he had begun to doubt his own intentions and his superior's- it just didn't add up.  
He had no idea who he was supposed to believe in.  
Chris knew he needed to talk to a person he could trust and although he knew his sister would always support him he longed for a conversation with Jill. She would understand and help him with her constructive criticism and knew how to show him he overreacted if he did.

He would find her.

And that was all there was to it.

* * *

Her mind was racing but she felt no fear anymore. It was simply a reaction of her body to the anguish she had felt just minutes ago, the sudden shock of adrenaline had been too much and now that it was gone she felt drained.

The helicopter had landed safely over two hours ago and she had been busy with reports she had to hand in now. However, as she had decided to return to her room, the pilot had already been waiting for her. In her precise, professional voice, her demand as obvious as her impatientness, she had told Ada their superior wanted to talk with her as soon as possible.

Of course, that did not mean it was time to hesitate or relax. "As soon as possible" was equivalent to "now".

In the end, she ended up running down the glistening corridors to her destination, so fixated on the goal the way held no significance. A talk about her employment was like a run over a field of landmines, a tiptoed dance with death. The rhythm was too fast and she felt herself chasing the cadence, only ending up always one second late.  
Ada did not enjoy the rush or the closure to the death, like lambs to the slaughter, the death she had predicted. There were other people relishing these moments, other woman like her, trying to simply get away. There would always be.

She wanted to share her plight and trouble with somebody, but at the moment she couldn't even confess to herself her situation was bad. If she did, she'd lose the emotions that pushed her forward and with no one and nothing to replace it, she'd be gone in a second, like a candle blown out by the breeze.

Leon would listen and Leon would care, she knew. But it wasn't for her uncertainty she did not seek him for answers. And it wasn't for her concern she left him in his pretty, little world. A bond like theirs was frail and so easy to disconnect, she was not cruel enough to risk it.

It killed her, though. With each new day she pitied herself and their tragic relation, she moved towards madness, taking three steps at once, never slowing down. So how came she still couldn't accept it? Each and every time she pretended not to care anymore, to be the mechanical woman, it was a facade so easy to see through. Leon hadn't seen anything, he hadn't thought so much about it. Was that what tied her to his memory? The simple fact he did not have to be rational or level-headed to make her feel like a better person?

Ada chuckled and finally threw open the door to her superior's office. She didn't bother knocking or yelling whatever it was she wanted, she busted in without making a sound, a figure hard to grasp.

Appearances were deceiving in her case. With her mind focused and her body trained, she was a deadly opponent, like a surgeon artist. It was time to get back to this, she knew. If she decided to fall for the grief once more, her head was worth nothing. The bounty on her head was lower than it had been a few years ago; she had had it checked once more. An organization like the one hunting her and other agents were actually doing them a favor, spreading news of their success around the bioterrorist world. She wouldn't die by the hands of her enemies.

"Ah, Miss Wong. What a coincidence I stumble into you here of all places."

The man facing her with bloodshot eyes and a smile too thin to actually be noticed was not her superior. He was part of another department, one that she called "cleanser". That was what they did: cleanse places of people or simply evidence.  
"Marsden"; she greeted him and smiled achingly friendly.

His first name was Doyle and that was what she usually called him while he wasn't around. He was a man to be addressed by his first name, which was nothing he should be proud of.

He shook his head and once again Ada noticed his hair seemed too blond for a man of his age- it was his attitude that caused him to be unattractive. No matter what he did or whom he talked to, he seemed pissed off. All in all, he looked like an aged model- one with a frown engraved on his features.

"What was it you wanted to let me know?", she asked and cocked her head.

Doyle snarled and raised his eyebrows. He was significantly taller than her, looking down with his angry eyes and yelling at her with his scottish accent. He did not have to raise his voice to yell, he made even a whisper sound like a scream.

"Your failed mission, of course", he spat, "I assume that Wesker's appearance is supposed to be proof your task has been completed? Well, it is certainly not. I cannot believe you, Miss Wong; you do know that another delay will be severely punished? Even though we identified the blood on your partner's clothes as our target's, that is not enough."

Ada sighed mentally. Doyle was right but that did not make it less annoying.

"So?"

"Do _not_ dare to make fun of me. Our team will hopefully find her body and all people you so foolishly let escape- if they don't, you have to repeat this task; a last time", he growled and crossed his arms.

She smiled at him again.

"I believe Davis will be impossibly glad to hear this, once you explain what you did in his office."

Doyle flinched only the slightest, proving her right.

But before he had to force an excuse for his doings, his cell phone rang and he quickly grabbed it with enough force to crash it. Ada could hear the caller say something, then Doyle hung up again.

"It's your lucky day, Miss Wong. They've been found."

For a brief moment she wondered if he was lying to escape the situation, but whatever the reason, it was fortunate indeed.

"I am rejoiced at this", she replied and hunched her shoulders, leaning against her superior's desk and never losing the smile.

Doyle looked as though he was seething already.

"You should keep your sarcasm for people of your status, if it was so easy to escape your boundaries you should've done so years ago."

"My, Marsden, do not forget your manners", a voice interrupted and Ada felt the naked spite in her heart jump.

Malcolm Davis, head of security in the Organization was no particularly threatening person, he was rather short and had a sharp nose that, combined with his glasses, made him look like a scholar. Ada had never been more unimpressed by a superior on their first meeting, especially because Davis was even a year younger than her. But with time she had realized he was dangerous, hiding his abilities behind his often humorous appearance.

"Miss Wong is still my agent and it should be my task to threaten her", he said now and shrugged, "You simply make _me_ look better."

Doyle wasn't stupid and he knew he had to back down now before his presence was questioned.

"Davis", he greeted his colleague with a nod, "I'll leave that to you, then... but do not forget you are not my superior either."

"A wonderful day to you, too." Davis waved him goodbye in a taunting manner, but left the door open as Doyle left.

"Now, Miss Wong, follow me, I have something you should take a look at- this simply doesn't seem to be the right place. People are sure to 'accidentally' stumble in", he said and gestured her to leave the office as well, "We can discuss what I ordered you in for on the way."

Ada did not like the way he pronounced the "something", it was a word spoken too commiserating. But what she did was nod and obey. That was all she could do, after all.  
The prospect of discussing her own execution was not all pleasant, but something she had to expect from Davis. She knew that her task had been to get rid of Jessica Sherawat, but it was needless to say a mission like this required discretion as well. Ada cursed Wesker for his foolish assault on the Ataraxis people, if he had just killed them before the B.S.A.A. showed up, they would have had time to place the explosives and erase both organization's agents. Chris Redfield's superior would have figured it had been a trap set up by Jessica, whose body could not be found and all would've been fine. Now that there were survivors involved, that had seen both Wesker and Jessica, it would end up as a disaster.

"May I ask what it is about?", she asked, hoping to abbreviate her punishing talk.

Davis, who strolled down the hallway beside her, looked at her rather concerned and sighed.

"Your parents, I am afraid", he said.

Adas mind turned to stone in the second the words left his mouth, the petrifying truth forced her thoughts in a different shape until there were no edges to collide into.

"I cannot claim not to know already, but some of the others around here do not- and as far as I know, you want to keep it this way", Davis continued and it sounded like a friendly warning.

_"Escaping your nightmares, fleeing outside to steal a final look at the stars- just to see their eyes hiding in the skies..." _ She did not want to accept how right this seemed now.

"Yes, sir. Marsden shouldn't know", she heard herself say. It was a charming voice speaking, a human's, but she did not feel like that right now.

Davis did not seem to notice, he chuckled quietly.

"Believe me, he is not angry at you of all people. But he's the one taking care of the remains of that slaughter Wesker left, which is not exactly a nice task. Next time you better watch who he is ripping to pieces."

"Next time", Ada stated and sneered bitterly.

"You will not simply be unemployed this evening, your level-headedness is still required", he answered. That was not the point, however; she was needed because Wesker talked with her instead of just cleaving her head open.

"I see", she affirmed and looked down onto the ground; sparkling, glistening metal.

"So quiet, Miss Wong?", Davis asked, his voice hinting amusement as they passed the laboratories. Ada knew where they were heading: towards the prison area, the interrogation rooms and something that could be called "archives".

"The thought of being sent to kill my family is not exactly a pleasant one", she replied drily.

Davis looked rather confused

"_Kill_? It seems you misunderstood me. You're not supposed to do anything. It is simply news of their current situation you are meant to receive", he explained and shook his head, "We're no monsters, Miss Wong."

"Some people would happen to disagree."

"I do know", Davis assured her, "But let us keep this discussion for later, I will have to talk to your partner in person before I can judge him."

It was a statement Ada liked, even though it was a lie; it promised so much.

They were passing the prison section in silence as he stopped in front of one of the glass windows, exposing the jail cells to the just visitors yearning to take a look at the criminals.

Ada wanted to ask what was so interesting about this place, but Davis interrupted her.

"You once asked me what made me issue the order to retrieve Wesker's body three years ago", he said and it was this moment a door was kicked open on the other side of the glass window. Ada did not hear anything due to the isolation of the room, but she didn't have to.

Three of the Organization's agents shoved the black clothed figure of Wesker into the cell roughly and kicked him in the knee bend to force him onto the ground. Their movements were fast and precise, but also brutal as they cuffed the man's hands behind his back.

"What was it?", Ada asked as Davis did not continue, still watching the scenery she deemed normal.

"What does he see in us, I wonder?", he replied, ignoring her question. Then he turned to face her and seemed serious about what he said.

"I decided to get Wesker back to work for us because his assistance is valuable- but that is not it. What makes a human human, I wonder?"

"He does not see himself as one." Ada was getting tired of explaining this to people, but she would not afford to lose her superior's support.

"So what do we see?", Davis asked and grinned, "A lunatic, maybe, a genius madman perfectly fitting in this world. Whatever the case, his abilities are beyond any doubt. So, keep him tamed, will you? Once we unleash him he will have to follow orders, even if it is only to ensure the death of Chris Redfield."

Ada nodded and felt as though she had been tricked willingly, offering her soul to the devils.

She fell silent then, her thoughts wandering off to a foreign place where news of her family did not mean the end of the world. For years and years they roamed, never finding shelter, but she was used to that. Her past was not to be concealed, it chased her down and snapped her neck whenever the chance, killing her just another time.

"It seems your parents have finished their research on the project, so their location is no longer unavailable for you; your brother informed me he is going to meet you there", he said.

Ada was not as happy as she expected herself to be; if she was honest, she was shocked and scared and torn.

_Meet me… what does he think happened to us that could make me forgive him? _

She swallowed hard and tried to think of a quick reply to show Davis it did not intimidate her. Again, there was nothing, she felt empty; all the words had been sucked off her body by these news and the sudden realness of the situation. As long as her parents stayed far away, the presence was so surreal… if she approached them, let them enter her world again, it would come true.

"I was the only one he could reach until now; you were deployed already. If you should meet him for real, please advise him to talk to you in person from the beginning. People are good listeners if it happens to be for their benefit", Davis warned her again and Ada knew he actually hinted somebody knew of it already, somebody who should not.

"Am I permitted to leave just like that?"

"You are. For whatever mission Wesker will be needed, you are not part of it. Once he is ordered to kill Chris Redfield he will no longer be tamed by words, it would be rather dangerous not to let him go alone", he explained, "We are able to spare you for a day or two."

It seemed too easy, too quick, to be true and Ada knew she was lied to instantly. Davis was worried and something about the way he would pronounce the names of the people involved that sent shivers down her spine. Whoever it was that knew of her family's fate would not leave them alone.

Ada stared at Wesker through the glass window. He had been shoved down onto his knees and it looked as though he was not happy about it. Nevertheless, all _he_ was was an empty shell of a traumatized madman, he was not worth the trouble.

He looked up and looked her straight in the eye.

Then he smiled.

He knew, of course.


	5. As your castle crumbles

**Thank you for being incredible, this chapter finally captures how the story will progress. It will get worse, though, so much worse and twisted and fucked-up. Whenever you believe the rating is no longer appropriate, you let me know, 'k? Deal. **

* * *

**V: As your castle crumbles**

All Jill knew was silence. Isolated from the world her mind trailed off to distant shores. It was a warm and sunny day, with the lights blazing down from the sky and separating her from everyone else. Oh, how wonderful the sea glistened, like the twinkling of the brightest star at night. And once the water slopped out on the beach like a greedily licking tongue, it all started to make sense to her. Once the beauty distorted to madness, Jill saw her face in the mirror again and not a stranger's- it completed her, whatever she begged to be her cure.

The distant sound of the waves continued soothing her mind and she smiled to herself.

There was only so much a human could endure and she had come past this point of no return decades ago. So how come she didn't reside to madness, like all the other lost souls traumatized by deeds they never took responsibility for?

Jill knew the answer and it made her smile, over and over again, no matter what torture she faced.

She was an optimist and someone to believe in humanity. There was no point in denying the evil in the world, the dark spirit that each and every human consisted, but complying with it didn't help. Instead, she reminisced and called upon the memories of brighter days. She did not even feel bad about it, she wasn't sad anymore. Once you crossed the border to indifference it all made sense.

Whenever she opened her eyes, she looked at the same thin bars caging her like the panther in the poem. She grew weary of seeing no world beyond them, so she shut her eyes and escaped, to the better world she desired.

Chris was there in her mind, Chris and other people she valued. So what if she was caged? She wasn't even feeling sad about it anymore; a dream was a loyal companion after all.

How everything had changed, she thought, how everything suddenly didn't stop changing. Switching from form to form, only to feel alive for a moment did not make sense to her- what human craved for difference? Jill liked to have something stable in her life, like the metaphorical bastion of calm. It didn't matter if her thoughts went astray, but not her ideals. In the past it had been easy not to confuse right or wrong, but in the flow of battle now she could not distinguish the two any longer.

She smiled and closed her eyes again.

The sun felt warm on her skin and it didn't occur to her it shouldn't be doing something like that underground.

The sun was shining only for her, after all.

So what if it died a second from now? A second was worth the effort.

It would last until the end.

* * *

They said there was an appropriate time and place for every emotion and every last damned reaction, but if there was something true about it, then where did it all belong? That restless mood she was in, this wicked, hunted thought of indifference that plagued her.

She raced through the forest, barely touching the ground. It was a spurt to hell and a dance with death at once. But within the motion was little grace, albeit it felt as though she floated through time and space.  
Anything as the current situation could not belong to what they called here and now. No, it was not real, but a bad dream all the sleepless nights provoked. 'As bad as can be', she thought as she continued her tiptoed chase.

Oh, how easily he had fooled her, that devil; with his empty eyes and a promise as fake as the heart he denied having. Words were treacherous beings, their winged souls aflutter. The secret was a secret no more thanks to their unjustified accuracy. Like vermin they crawled through the tiniest hole in the facade and opened up her skull, leaving her brain open for everyone to see. And now that the trees were scarce and the earth fell silent in her mind, the truth was told.

The ground was burnt and grey and fire shone brightly in the distance. A detonation had caused a miasma of chaos in the forest- creating the chasm that now exposed the small house. No longer hidden in the shadow of the trees it appeared small and weakly-built, likely to consist of nothing more than paper. A breeze would be sufficient to make it topple over like a crashing car.

It hurt to look.

She jumped over a fallen tree, her dress contrasting against the dark surroundings. Then she ran like a hunted deer, fast and frantic, her pulse as loud as the voices of the world. A primal urge to scream arose inside her, to make the feelings leave her body. If they stayed, she'd die. Simple as that.

But she wouldn't dare to disrupt the silence yet. It kept her at ease and promised hope for a better outcome than what she anticipated.

In one's childhood the houses and streets that formed the daily life would appear huge and impressive as though they had been built to last forever. But once the years had passed and the seasons gone, the shadows of what once had been godlike entities would cease to amaze the loyal follower. They shrunk like her dreams, until her imagination could not pass the time limit of a day. Everything else, further in time, was impossible to approach.

As she slowly stepped up the stairs that led to the veranda, the surrealism of the moment was gone for a second. It was replaced with a foreign nostalgia at once, with the squeaking wood beneath her feet functioning as a soundtrack of the past. But it was no positive memory, no longing to relive the days long gone, it was a nightmare no one could ever replace or compensate for.

The door stood open, but in her madness it resembled a chasm of a mouth rather than an entrance. She hated her exaggerating mind that pulsated with each new sentiment that washed over her, she hated her weakness. All of it, all of her gruesome thoughts were inside her head, though, on the outside she was perfectly fine. Alive and well, she thought, alive and well like one of the dead.

The room was only dimly lit, as though the windows denied the light to pass through. Dust was whirling around in the air like little creatures performing a cruel dance to greet her. Music was the part missing in their little act of welcoming, but she knew it would do her no good if somebody chose to make it better this way.

A strange melody played and after a moment of recognition it became apparent it was more than just a hallucination. She listened as the annoying sound of the static took over and the music stopped playing.

_A radio? So somebody IS here and able to turn it on. _

But even though that was proof a living creature still roamed through this house, she did not allow herself to hope for a better outcome. Better safe than sorry, she thought and smiled.

"Hello?", she yelled, "Anybody there?"

It was a call for nobody and she regretted it immediately. The sound did not echo, it was rather muffled by the thick dusty air in the oh-so-familiar halls. What started as a demonstration of superiority ended up making her feel small and vulnerable, in rooms that pressed down on her like weights of lead.

So she straightened herself and kept walking towards the narrow hallway leading farther down into the depths of the hell-house that had once been her home. Now it was a grave and a monument to testify the strength of the monsters she fought for.

The corridor was just another room filled with old-fashioned furniture and dusty relics of old times, with one door leading into the kitchen.

She slowly walked past the room and saw the radio standing on the small table in the middle of it. A tiny light sparkled in the dark, making clear it was no longer turned on.

Even though the corridor stretched out only as far as ten meters, it suddenly seemed longer than a road around the world. There was a doll standing on top of a little shelf next to the kitchen door. The empty plastic eyes followed her every movement and the never-fading grin seemed to mock her with every step she took. And she did step forward, because the world behind her ceased to exist.

She wondered if denial could have saved her from this. If she could just turn around and leave, would it ever be real? Just a step backwards into the nothingness of the second prior and she could go on with everything else, everything not connected to this house and its inhabitants.

How grateful she'd be to be able to turn out and leave, but she couldn't and would never. She wasn't only the one standing by, watching the accident in all its accidental cruelty, she was searching for it.

_To end it all, maybe, or just to make it stop for a moment, a day, a lifetime._

The doll smiled at her intensely. Her eyes were blank.

_She_ was a person after all, no doll staying put in some place or other, so she rushed right past the peculiar surroundings. The moment she would stop moving and stand still, her death would be imminent.

It was so hard to tell right now, amidst all the reminders of days worse than this, what exactly was going on. Changes were coming; she could feel it in her bones. But in a country like this, a constantly changing wasteland of the rich, deserted by war, it was difficult to distinguish past from present if it was not important to stay alive.

The door was closed still; it was the last on this corridor and the last one she'd open so airily.  
In a book, as insignificant as every other written documentation, she had once read about this, this premature maturity that was forced upon some. It was the most common story, never even seen as a loss anymore; but she knew it mattered. Once a childhood, that infantile innocence was taken from the poor thing by force, it would never lose the feeling of difference again. She knew it mattered. She knew all too well.

The tiny stroke of madness that already resided within her brain wanted to laugh, sing and cry at the sound of nothing around her. It wanted her to fill the void and lose the little rest of humanity she still called her own.

_Oh please, not again. A fit, right here, right now? I thought it was a long way down._

She practically jumped forward, grabbed the handle and shoved open the door. After all this time she wouldn't stop at the slightest fear coming up; she was trained not to. In a few seconds it wouldn't matter anymore, she told herself, in a few seconds...

And then it did matter all off a sudden.

She had stumbled into the living room with its huge windows and bright colors. Wind gushed in through one of the open glass doors and blew the curtains in her direction. Between the leather couches stood a small, metal table on which somebody had placed a vase with flowers.

The roses were red, the table metallic blue. And the blood on the fawn carpet looked black and viscous in the light, so wonderfully dark and surreal.

A painting, she gasped in her thoughts as her intestines clenched, a madwoman's painting of love and cruelty and obsession. With colors as intense as a psychedelic dream and a silent arrangement of the objects it was a beautiful, immaculate work of art. Confined in the subtle grace of it, she felt her grip on reality loosen with time.

If she encountered a sight too terrible to look at, she avoided it with force. Eyes could seize a different place while the brain tried to cope with what it could not process.

The corpse was sprawled out over the length of one couch, one of the arms dropped limply onto the ground. Except for the look on the poor thing's face it looked like a living person.

She had seen death and its many forms; she had passed them by and caused a considerate amount of it. But as any victim could convince, the difference between victim and watcher was one a watcher could never fully understand. A pain this numbed, this personal and close to the person's core was an experience one could not reconstruct.

The woman's knee caps were busted and her Achilles' tendon severed. The sinews looked like wire from a radio that somebody had taken apart. An oozy, brightly red liquid dripped from the wounds, but it did not look like blood to her. It resembled everything, just everything else- and yet she had never seen clearer. Although her insides screamed to repress every last bit of the gore, her mind worked perfectly fine.

The woman's head, however, looked deformed in a gruesome manner. Somebody seemed to have stretched the skin like old, chapped paper until it cracked entirely. It was a mask now, a mask of skin so fiercely separated from the flesh.

As she walked closer, stunned and yet somehow relieved to finally confront the fears, she noticed the corpse's fingers were broken and bended backwards in a grotesque angle. Each phalanx seemed to be broken several times; but that wasn't what shocked her. Somebody must've taken the time to force them into different directions- did that happen before or after the woman died? It didn't look as though the cause of death had been pain or exhaustion or even the loss of blood. No, rather than that, there were visible haematomata on her neck.

She swallowed hard.

_"We are all born unto this world as nothing more than a lump of clay. But it's the sum of one's life experiences__**that moulds the wicked man**__", _she thought and did not recall the origin of the quote. She was moulded that second, in this particular room by a corpse too familiar not to mourn.

"No", she whispered, without even doubting what she saw was real. Of course it was true. It was too horrible not to be.

She walked closer.

She kneeled down.

She stretched out her hand to touch the woman's, but stopped an inch before she actually reached it. A fear born of one's past is not likely to be mended just like that and indeed she could not bring herself to even perform this small gesture. Before her lay slain the woman that had given birth to her such a long time ago; they were connected by blood and nothing beyond that.

She could not weep or cry or sob. Moreover, she felt nothing and could only stare. Stare down the corpse until it vanished from her mind.  
It was then she got up and walked towards the glass door. The outside world looked far away and way too bright for all that had happened on this day. But could she be sure the incident hadn't occurred sooner? In order to find out she needed to touch the corpse and that was out of the question.

"Goodbye, mom. See you later."  
The door swung open as she pushed it; if there had ever been a chance of finding more than violated bodies, it was now gone. Her family always locked the back door, no matter if there was a fire or a tornado around to kill them. It seemed as though today one of those had come from hell to get them finally.

And again her feet did not touch the ground as she walked through the corpses of trees cut down by men so much smarter than her. Oh, and how smart they were indeed, to send her here as a witness and previously, but still convicted person. In the wake of disarray she was sure to realize more than just her petty world was at stake.  
She took long, heavy steps around the house. There should be a cellar somewhere nearby, a sheltered place somebody would run to in case of an emergency. Or so she hoped.

And then the trail of blood formed before her eyes, as flawless as a mountain river on the dusty ground. Such beautiful colors, she thought, and yet they meant nothing but cries of dismay to the weak. And yet it was no pristine water flooding the garden and this at least was clear as a day.

Her lips were red, but all off a sudden she could not remember if it was blood or lipstick that colored them. Her vest was red, but all off a sudden she felt as though she was bleeding. And then she moved on, following the trail up to its source.

A body was nothing personal on its own. If police forces were not able to disavow the corpses they found, everyone on the military included would go crazy- or at least end up crazier than usual.

So, she asked herself, what turned a dead body into something she could mourn? Who of all people could fool even her into believing it mattered?

The aged male lay on the blood-soaked ground, but unlike his wife he had not been treated as a human being anymore. How soft the rain fell, ignoring the atrocity men had created, how impudently gentle. And against all odds, there was a corpse waiting for her and no surprisingly lively father. But what had he looked like before somebody decided to carve out his womb? What had the eyes ever told her, the eyes that looked only empty and crossed by veins, veins indeed, for they had popped and painted the eye utterly red.  
Or rather yellow, she deduced, the discharge of pus seemed brighter than blood.

She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, but for the moment there was no difference. So she stared and kept silent in a silent place.

Somebody had gutted the man, but left his spine as though his bone had been picked. Except for the head there was nothing human about the corpse, in fact, it looked alienated beyond recognizability.

Chunks of flesh were still splattered around it like meatballs in a spaghetti sauce. They were fresh.

She did not kneel down to close her father's eyes, nor did she go any closer. The murderer had to be still around and she wasn't going to let him get away. No matter how far away, how faceless these corpses were, she was bound to them by blood and memory. And whoever killed them would go after her next.

There was a hatch somewhere nearby, leading to a safe room for refugees in case of an emergency. Did it serve its purpose? She did not know and was not too keen on finding out.

She walked closer and opened it up for everyone to see. In movies, there would be somebody calling out to her, desperately crying for her to come down and help; so why wasn't there anything shouting, anything _clinging to life_?

"Over and over you provoke changes you live to rue, dear, when will you see it is too much?" The voice soothed her, even though it meant nothing. What it said was nonsense, always, forever.

"A stranger in a strange land. I have been expecting you", she said and smiled at the intestines. Oh, there was nothing wrong with her, for so, so long.

"I expected you had. And yet here we are."

He was the beauty and the beast, the soul succumbed to grief and so deranged, so easily terrified... or was it her?

"Was it me?", she asked confused, "Or what was it that hurt you so terribly?"  
He leaned against a wooden pole of the veranda, crossing his arms.

"You could not hope to hurt me, dear."

"So what was it?"

"You cannot understand. Not yet", he said indifferently and pointed at the hatch.

She nodded.  
"Two out of three", she said, "It is never only two."

She walked down the stairs, she searched and she saw. She turned, she ran, she fled. But still she could not understand.

He was waiting for her.

"Alive and well... how true, how sad", she claimed and pointed a gun at him. The bullet never left the barrel.

"It wasn't me", he replied and shook his head.

"But it only wasn't you for a second. It would've been you in a while."

"It wasn't me", he said.

They looked at one another for only an eternity and still she could not see.

"Tell me", she ordered him and lowered the gun, "Tell me and I will be fine."

He raised his chin and looked down upon her.

"They were just another link in a chain, dear, just like all the others yet to follow."

She knew, of course, and she also knew it would be her turn one day. She had always known.

"I didn't know", she said and smiled, "They locked themselves here. I wasn't part of it."

He shook his head.

"It is not yet time for you", he answered.

She laughed.

"Will you find them?"

"I will. One day or other."

"What will you do on that day?"

"What is it I shall do?"

"Kill them. Kill them all, every last of them."

"Consider it done. One day or other."

* * *

Oh, how they laughed all around him, all those kind, funny people, never giving anything a second thought. And he did not want them to, as long as they lived on. So deep inside a world of crime it was impossible to join, to redirect the responsibility entrusted to his care. He would never leave, never stand in line anymore with those waiting for a train to carry them far, far away. There was no train left at the end of the day.

He did not chase fame and fortune, he sought answers... so how did they call him a hero? He was bent on justice, nothing for himself, only them, always them, as much as it was theirs, all he possessed. He knew it wouldn't be possible for him to keep it up. But if he did not press on, who would? If he did not act, then who else could stand up and fight the terror?

"Don't you wanna drink something? You've been sitting there staring at the people for ages."

He turned his head and faced the girl sitting on the other side of the table. She was pretty, with pale skin, red lips and eyes blue as nothing he ever wanted to see again. Unyielding, fierce, in the beautiful face. He looked at her and forced a smile.

"Nah, I'll pass. Not in the mood."

He had met her a few weeks ago in another bar, another city. They had travelled here together, along the border and she had fallen head over heels for him. But it was only a matter of time before they'd break up. He tried so desperately not to and failed again. It seemed so irrelevant, all his worries and lovers, he could not believe they were real. It was a distraction, from ten months spent in a flat soaked with memories. Traversing the land was freeing at last, but not enough.

Expand it all, he thought, that's what I want but not what I need.

"You wanna go dance?", the woman asked.  
He shook his head.

Not tonight.

"What is there that stops you?", she asked, "And what was there yesterday? What will it be tomorrow?" She wasn't talking about the dance.

They fell silent where there should've been a conflict. It would always end like this.

_Just one more day, one more favor..._

They were in love.

* * *

_You_.

A word so weak, so small, so human... and yet it meant the end, all of it and all of him. From the darkest chasm they expanded to the threshold of his mind, that fragile, hardened construction. Words.

Over and over again, like a never-ending stream of water spilled on a blank page. He did not drown, nor did he grasp for a hold to rescue his sanity. In time he saw it was best, it would've killed him. Because this simple truth _was_ there, somewhere, hidden beneath all that spite and indifference: Humanity, the cruelest twist of fate. And yet it was not there, only faintly caged. He had seen what happened once insecurity caused his still beating heart to stir.

"Are you saying I was manufactured?", he asked, voice clear, tense, spiteful. A chunk of ice inside his chest, nothing more, nothing less. So numb, so deaf, so speechless; the words thrown at him did not make sense anymore.  
Clenching the fist, raising the chin; a weak protest. How did the colors fade already?

Raindrops pured down the window before him, chasing one another like wolves chase down their prey. Bad, bad to the bone with no hope for redemption... he would've chuckled at that, such childish want for no one but _pity_... how weak, how laughable.

He didn't laugh this time.

_What did the old man think he was? A chosen one? A saint? A _god_? How insolent, how pretentious, how _false.

Inside he seethed, raged and bit down with the primal urge to kill, but outside he was old, distant, forgotten in time. Superiority was nothing to be proclaimed, it was earned and made by utilizing it- the old fool did not see, did not get this most simple of truths. He would fall, once more, once again.

"Ironic, isn't it? For one who has the right to be a god..." (_Ironic? Oh, how ironic, how false, how forced, you fool, you old, old man; you fool born to fail, to die, to kneel at your own grave in shame... so very ironic, iconic, false...) _"To face his own mortality." (_What a question, asked to soon, once again, in the falsest of manners, the falsest of times... a question made to be ignored, to be twisted, torn, turned down...)_

He trusted too soon again, trudging on too great a force, yet he _knew_. How was it the fool was brilliant and the brilliant a fool to believe he was in control? How did the old man make him so young?

_(You do not know, never knew, never watched... you know nothing, nothing of me, nothing of your fate and the irony you create)_ ...but the thought lay bare before the old man, reflected as easily as it was repelled.

A moment they lingered, uneasy as to where their place in this play was, like the father and the son they weren't. What he said did not matter, what the old man did was irrelevant; as his flesh ripped and his organs swelled with blood and his breathing became ragged and the lights went down even more, they were still the same: just older and even less innocent.

"That right is now mine", he spat and the soft tissue of human flesh felt wet around his arm. So easy to pierce with brute force, so easy to kill. Then he let go of the worthless body and let it drop to the floor, as disgusted by its weakness. The last breath should be saved for one to be taken alone.

He stared down at the body and never wept for the old, old man. He had done the world a favor and yet his broke, fell, shattered.  
What a brave new world it was.


	6. You will be, bound to see

**VI: You will be, bound to see**

It was a starry night, the fields as barren as a victim of war or the darkest moon; explosions had lit the sky up not only once, but again and again. Albeit it was cold and albeit it was a pitch-black darkness that cloaked the forest, it was a pleasurable place to stay. The chilly wind comforted each shape perfectly, breathing through the dead men's forest like the prayer of an unknown god. Or maybe it were the stick-like fingers of the trees, reaching for the heavens. Those were the real zealots, seeking forgiveness.

It was quiet, almost peaceful.

A perfect night in a perfect place in a perfect world. The perfect time to be killed.

Chris swore under his breath as he tripped the umpteenth time. He had spent the last hours forging his way though hedges blocking with way (and unfortunately his view as well). For hours he had tried to avoid any surveillance of air approaches; stumbling though the forest with a flashlight gone haywire wasn't exactly easy. It proved to be rather difficult in every way possible.  
But now it seemed he was getting closer to his goal, only one more hedge to pass and-

"Fuck!", he explained ingloriously as he fell forward unexpectedly, "Sweet fucking Jesus-"  
The next thing he knew was laying on a rocky ground with a major headache. It wouldn't cease, he knew, until the end of forever.

It had been a bad, bad week for Chris Redfield. Understatement of the decade.

* * *

_The man looked more than just mildly pissed as he opened the door and before Chris could open his mouth and defend himself, the first of many hate-filled preaches began._

_It took him about thirty "I hate you", even more "rotten scumbag feasting on poor people" and a considerable amount of "religious bastard swines" before he could actually say something._

_"Good day, Sir, my name is Chris Redfield and I really did not intend to-"_

_The door fell shut right in front of him. _

_It wasn't the first of this encounters, though, he was prepared to face threats bigger than a grumpy old man._

_Given the circumstances he should be more worried; he felt only tired. His boss had given him the opportunity to effectively start his search for Jill, so he had acted as quickly as possible. As a former police officer (or at least he liked to consider himself one, it sounded awesome and the girls still loved it, unless they were drug addicts, which he was not too big a fan of anyway) he knew how to solve such a case, he had done so multiple times. One of his least favourite jobs had been the investigation in the victim's neighborhood, questioning people. Most of them were pretty nice, but nothing they said had ever proven to be essential for the investigation.  
Today, it seemed, he was either too tired to be friendly or picking houses of traumatized psychotics. Maybe it was Jill's mistake, though, for choosing this area as a decent place to live in. Chris did not like the idea of blaming her._

_With even less enthusiasm than before, he stepped away from the nice, picket-fenced house and crossed the street. Next house, next chance, he thought and suddenly he wished Jill could just be back. Of course that was what he constantly wanted to happen, but in that moment he thought he could not stand it not happening anymore._

_Then his phone rang._

_"Yeah?", he just asked, too busy to utter a greeting._

_"Redfield? That you?" _

_"Yeah, I guess it's me. Who's asking?", he said and stopped walking, effectively dodging a car._

_"This is Miller. Listen, I don't have much time 'cause Wakefield's on his way here again. But there is something that I have to tell you-"_

_The man sounded strained and nervous, but there was also something else Chris could not place. Fear, maybe?_

_"Hold up, hold up. What happened?"_

_"I heard something. Just... something, but I thought it could be important", Miller said rapidly and with sufficient determination to convince Chris._

_"Yeah. Okay. What was it?"_

_"Your partner. Wakefield knows where she is."_

_And with that, hell broke loose in his mind. He felt anger, frustration, suspiciousness and above all he was thankful. A thousand questions needed to be asked, a thousand answers were required, but he could not speak, could not breathe for a second._

_"I accidentally overheard a conversation he had with somebody on the phone, talking about Valentine being held in what is left of Raccoon City. They could not approach her because of some interference with the satellite; something is blocking the signal." Miller kept on talking and the longer he did so, the more desperate he got._

_"But to me it sounded as though Wakefield was not interested in getting there at all, he... I don't know. I just felt you needed to know."_

_Chris still didn't reply. There was something wrong, he knew as much, and yet he couldn't bring himself to believe Miller was a liar. _

_And then he suddenly heard voices at the other end of the phone, people running and yelling and the connection was cut. _

_Chris stared at his phone as if it could provide an explanation of what had happened. It stayed quiet, as it should._

_The car racing down the street like a monstrous, living train with eyes as blazing as the hell it did not fear did not do so. Its engine screamed at Chris, re-establishing a childish nightmare of laughter followed by fear followed by death._

_The week had just started, after all._

* * *

Chris sighed.

Tuesday and Wednesday he had spent in a hospital after a nervous breakdown at the side of the street. It had happened before, but never had the memory been so vivid. It still was, but he could control it for the moment.

Thursday he had returned to the B.S.A.A. headquarter to face Wakefield. His boss had told him the same Miller had said, an unknown caller (Again. It got too frequent, Chris thought) had informed him of Jill's location. He just hadn't been sure of it, so he decided to wait until it was confirm before he raised hope where there was none.

Friday, Miller was found dead in his flat with a needle sticking in his eye. So it goes.

Saturday he had gone off to Raccoon City with no back-up, informing nobody of the trip.

There was no one left to trust.

Chris recovered quickly from the fall and jumped to his feet. Although it did not feel like it, he was sure he had not broken any bones or pierced vital organs.

The forest had begun to whisper behind him, calling him back into its dark embrace. But the innocuous it looked to him, he knew that there was something hidden beneath the sinister grounds and phony fertile roots of trees long succumbed to nourishment drawn from human veins. Something worse, so much worse than dead bodies, blood and limbs torn apart. He did not turn back to find it once more.

Over a decade had passed since his last visit and yet everything had changed. Chris hated the peaks of the mountains for seeming lower and the forest for being brighter than it had ever been before. To him, this area was a monument stuck in time, just as he was. It was unnerving to see it change; he felt old at the thought.

And odd, he mused, for losing all that was him back in the day.

His flashlight had survived the fall and as he picked it up and took a look at his surroundings.  
The forest he had left lay on higher ground; his fall had brought him close to a worn railway track that lead around the mountain range, as it seemed. Or at least that was what Chris presumed by seeing it continue for as far as he could see.

There was no time to linger.

The rail tracks resembled a nightmarish place he had visited frequently in his dreams a few years prior. An endless hallway leading nowhere, but taking his ability to turn back. There was something frightening in having no choice, something related to every creature's struggle for freedom and identity. So when the eternity left him with strength- and strength useless and purposeless- he was nothing more than a victim of his own mind fighting the sickness.

But hell, those were rails. There was nothing scary about them and for the sake of god, he was Chris Redfield and if there was something he feared, it sure as hell wasn't a train.

As the surge of fear shot through him, he began to run. It was funny, really, entirely delighting, what the whole affair had turned him into. Just a pulsing, beating heart freshly fetched for dinner.

The cool air refreshed him, soothed him even. And as he sprinted down the mountain path, always following the rails.

_Remind me, lest I forget what it means to find the something I search for... save me, lest I fail._

He was doing this for Jill, who had said those words so many years ago. After what happened to Jessica he was not sure if her fate would turn out to be the same, just a wrench in the gears of the B.S.A.A.. Although this risk existed, joined by the unnerving voice of conspiracy in the back of each human's head, he was Chris Redfield. He would not stand by and watch a friend fall. Not again.

A storm was coming. As it approached, he did not see.

The screeching howled through the night.

The forest whispered still, but quietly. Everything consisted of the storm.

And Chris knew only as it was so close by he could smell the engine, hear its roar and cherish its warmth in the cold, how bad his mind had been damaged.

It was a train, no monster coming back to haunt him; or rather _just_ a monster, nothing worse, so much worse.

The brakes were making the screaming sounds as the furious machine was put to a halt, forced out of its raging rush. And yet it was not what he had feared, what still lurked in the forest. Maybe one day he would find out.

The train stopped at last. For a moment, Chris thought he saw a figure on top of it, but then it vanished. He was known for a vivid imagination after all; or at least since Africa. Oh, what a gift it had been, that wonderful journey in search of spiritual enlightenment; how _grateful_ he was.

It was a matter of routine, really.

Chris grabbed his gun, checked his surroundings and ran for the vehicle.

The lights were out, but he was prepared, all was well and fair in love and...

The first attacker assaulted him upon entry. There was no introduction or tacky speech of supremacy.

It was a woman, or what was left of her; a zombie nonetheless. There was make-up on her face, hiding both scars and dried blood; like the clown, Chris thought, this wicked tortured clown.

She hissed and bit and growled like an animal, until the bullet pierced her skull and let the back of her head bust open like a piñata, a child's toy, a fun thing.

Others followed, many of them, all deprived of humanity and starving, racing right past the remains of their fellow monsters, stomping on their bodies and painting the floor. And they hit the floor, those bodies, and there was nothing wrong with it anymore. All off a sudden, they were no humans, but _shells_, empty, hollow, like a crown never worn.

And once their count got scarce, their voices fell silent and their hunger was appeased. When Chris was finished, he was the last man standing.

The red cushions looked like they had been torn from a theatre, a place of art and lustful indifference, standards as high as a kite. Had they been red before? He did not know. Did it matter at all?

Among all the seats and tables that had once not been scattered across the floor there were people now, like the audience to the show. Their bulging eyes and no longer bulging veins made them look like drowned bodies, left along the sea. And yet they did not applaud, they did not wait for the curtains to rise. They would wait no longer.

A snarl let Chris turn and fire the gun once more, but the gas-masked figure had apparently expected this and swept him off his feet. Literally.

There were more than just one, though, rushing in through the next wagon's door; all those faceless, insect people.

Chris rolled backwards and took cover behind one of the seats. It was easy to pull the shotgun from the holster on his back, his knife already resting in its other hand.

"I have no idea who you are and I have no intention to kill you", he said as peaceful as he managed. _Yet. Always, only, never yet._

One of the men chuckled.

"We know. And we do."

That was all that needed to be said, his authorization to attack. What should he do? It was his choice, yet it was the only one.

The shotgun blast killed only one of the soldiers, as expected they were quick and used to combat like this. But who wasn't, Chris thought, it seemed as though everyone was up for a little kill in-between working days lately.

As they approached, he threw the knife right into one's head. It rocked back against the wall and crashed. Chris followed his weapon, kicking one of the men down on the ground, ripping the knife from the tender flesh of one, shoving it into another. He dodged one's foot and sent him back with another shot and sliced his companion's throat in the next second.

He jumped up again and turned and wanted to continue and found himself staring at another gun.

"That's it, super meatboy", the soldier said and pressed the barrel against Chris's forehead, "Playtime's over."

The man gestured him to turn around and so he did, staring at the row of blood-painted seats. His heart pounded with excitement and his eyes burned. If he had been a bit faster, all would be okay. It wasn't now, that was certain.

On the other end of the wagon the door opened and three armored men entered. They all wore gas masks, which was no bad thing. If they were planning on killing Chris immediately, they would've shown their faces. Or maybe, he thought, as he felt the barrel leaving a mark on his skin, they were just cleverer than standard criminals.

"Don't even bother trying to escape. There are snipers on the hills. One wrong move and they put a bullet between your eyes", the man behind him said, "Or maybe I'll be the lucky one. You're dead either way."

Chris laughed, heartily even.

"You think so? Forget about that as fast as you can. Your throat's the next one to be sliced."

It wasn't about Karma, he was sure of it, but what happened made him question his beliefs.

"Getting cocky now, freshmeat? Yeah, the likes of you always grow a pair before asking for a quicker death than-"

The man stopped talking and the barrel was lifted from Chris head. He spun around, fast enough to see the man hit the floor. Blood oozed from the tiny wound in his forehead.

"The fuck was that?", one of the others yelled and the desperation was audible in his voice.

Chris did not care; he took cover behind the seats again and reloaded his guns. Whoever shot the soldier was still around somewhere, it had probably just been a failed attempt to kill Chris himself. Now there were three men left in the train and some snipers on the outside. They would not be a problem as long as he stayed in position; the windows were almost completely covered by the curtains.

He readied his gun and the knife and stood up, facing the remaining soldiers. He was ready to shoot, to kill again, but he did not have to.

In the moment he planned to pull the trigger, a figure crashed through the roof, onto one of the men's back, knocking him down. The attacker held some dastardly looking toothed combat knifes; their blades pierced through the downed men's helmet as though it was flesh.

The other soldiers had no time to point their gun down, the newcomer simply recovered the knifes and slit them through the unprotected hamstrings. As the men dropped on their knees, screaming, he thrust the blades right through the back of their necks. The men stopped making sounds rapidly, after a short struggle that let their blood spray across the wagon like a fountain.

All fell silent.

Chris watched in horror and amazement as the deadly soldier stood up. He looked like all the others, black-clad and wearing a gas mask. Their uniform looked like those of S.W.A.T. or those government dudes in horror movies who always cleared outbreak situations.

But that was not what made him stop.

The man holstered his knifes after wiping them clean at the corpses' clothes and stood up. Then he pulled off his gas mask, quick and almost disgusted.

Wesker had not changed that much, his hair was shorter and his features looked rather starved than refined, but he was recognizable. The eyes, it was all about the eyes; that damned scarlet-needled stare.

He watched Chris for a moment, as if considering his reaction. But then he stepped back and descended the stairs. And just like that he was gone again.

Chris should've known better than to follow.

* * *

"I must say I did not expect you to stay so calm", Wesker stated calmly without ever looking back; he had holstered his precision rifle on his back and walked down the trail next to the train that had become a deathbed to many.

Chris cautiously caught up with him.

"As far as I can tell, I have either lost my mind once more or you have saved my life. Whatever the case, you do not plan to kill me right away."

It wasn't that easy, he knew. But he had become careful in the last years, not knowing who to trust. Wesker definitely was his enemy, but he was also the one with the answers to every question plaguing Chris.

"So you've grown up eventually. Good." There were only a few people who could make a simple statement as that sound like the crudest insults.

It was awkward, walking next to your biggest enemy like nothing happened at all.

"And you still look like a descendant from the Matrix", Chris replied drily and rubbed his neck, "See, I don't wanna ruin the mood or anything, but shouldn't you be _dead_?"

"Pardon my lack of eloquence, but I cannot bring myself to find a reason to explain my presence. Contend with the fact I am present and either return home or prepare to help me. What will prove to be the true and utter torture I dare not say", Wesker sneered and something about his behavior changed.

"Cut it with Shakespeare, that's just creepy", Chris said and waited a few moments before he continued, "What are you searching for? And who were those people?"

"I suppose you would call them mercenaries. However, even though it is probably much to your dismay I readily admit I did no research on their personalities before I eliminated them", Wesker replied faintly amused, "If you intend to accuse me of anything, I would advise you to go ahead. Divert me."

Chris shrugged.

"What do you want me to do? Shove a shotgun barrel down your throat and pull the trigger more than once? _Cut_ your throat altogether? Wouldn't work anyway", he said indifferently, "And as off recently, I can't be sure I am not talking to myself here, it'd be pretty dumb to accuse thin air of anything."

And he hadn't even started lying.

Wesker watched him for a moment, seeking signs of uncertainty and untruth. But he knew as well as Chris who was the traitor of the two, the vicious one, the _liar_.

"When has that ever stopped you from trying?", he asked mildly amused and frowned, "And, the much I dislike to sound uninformed, why do you bother following me?"

"Staying alive is something you could say I cherish. While I'm at it, it's pretty fucked up for you to save me."

The rail tracks were leading the way and the two strangely acquainted men followed suit, with no intention of resentment. It was either too late or too early to hate and kill like all those times before. In the end, it would never work out, but for a moment it was pleasant not to bust each other's heads. This moment would not last, after all.

"Do not mistake practical effect for sympathy or recompense", Wesker said. Chris almost burst out laughing at the tinge of anger in the madman's voice. As he could not contain a chuckle, he earned an irritated glare.

It was fascinating how much less of a threat a lunatic could be if you felt even more insane than him for _understanding_ a psychosis. The darkness of the sky seemed to press down upon them suddenly, suffocating both the devil and the_ hero_, the flawless, good, honest person. It would not stop before they ceased moving.

"I might have to reconsider my decision of shooting someone other than you", Wesker said, but he sounded bored rather than genuinely angry. He couldn't hide the tinge, though, this dangerous spark of all the fury he could unleash. And once he did, the world shut down and stopped listening. Oh, how wonderfully silent a crowd could feel, how loyally abandoning. It was an exorcism of a sort, draining you of your strength and watching you fall. The evil spirit had to leave, be banished, cast out. It would always end like that, in a beautiful, happy ending.

It made Chris chuckle once more.

"Your _decision_? No, I think you would be more than glad to wear my intestines as a necklace by now. It is not placidity only that lets me stay in one piece here, nor is it a decision you made, I think", he said and let the realization dawn on Wesker before he continued, "I may not be some kind of genius or higher being or whatever the hell you claim to be these days, could be the marshmallow man for all I care, but I am not stupid enough to buy an excuse like 'practical effect' here."

The night turned a shade darker.

"You're not gonna tell me anything about your reasons anyway, so why bother lying? Whatever nutcase hired you for whatever reason told you not to kill me, I guess. Add a _yet_ to that sentence, though", he continued, "But honestly? I don't care. I don't have the time to clean up after you anymore."

With that, he just shrugged and suddenly they stopped walking.

So many things would end up unsaid.

Death was one of them.

Chris grabbed hold of his weapon.

_So what if he cannot be killed._

_So what if staring down the barrel of a gun equals eternal salvation._

_So what if not killing him means nothing more to me than not killing myself._

The clock was not ticking this time, no world to be saved and no life to be taken.

"You were there, killing Jessica, right?"

"I was."

"What for? Why was she wanted dead?"

"You are still, so why bother asking about her?"

"Because your superiors decided to spare me, but not her... I wonder what she could have done that is worse than me killing all their operatives."

A sneer, a grin, a success.

"You merely killed their prisoner, the one carrying out orders, if that is what your so intellectually challenging deduction is rightfully leading me on to. What is there to punish?"

Chris lowered his gun. Wesker's voice hinted amusement, but that did not make his statement less accurate.

So he just shrugged, as the pure person he was and forced the villain to follow, not take the lead once.

"I am searching for Jill", he said, tired and indifferent. It was a sudden and not too subtle change, but the facade was less a shield than a burden.

"It should not become a habit"; Wesker replied drily, "What about your sister? Is she not the type to get lost?"

"She's the type to kick my ass if I actually do search for her without reason. And, you know, to be perfectly honest, I would not put it beyond you to pretend helping me even though you were the one capturing her in the first place", Chris said and felt the pleasant anger arise within him, "You'd probably even save my life."

It felt so good, so real, to be angry again. Like a memory of older times returning to him after months of amnesia. Rage always fueled him when ambition could last no longer.

"Telling you about my plans would spoil it all", Wesker said sharply, "And now leave. You can bring your urgent matter to someone else since I will provide no further assistance. _Not killing_ _you_ does not necessarily require me to guide you to your long lost girlfriend and watch your heart-breaking, tear-filled reunion."

Chris grinned.

"So you _were_ ordered not to kill me. I knew it."

"It is an inquiry concerned with your self-preservation: Considering my past deeds, am I somebody to let grudges go?" Wesker did not sound furious, he simply stated a fact.

"You make it sound like I owe you one."

"You still do. You owe me two lives, or rather two deaths. And believe me, when the time comes, I will hold you to that."

Chris shrugged.

"Okay. If you say so. Can't wait, actually. It will spare me the pain of listening to more crazy talk about the world population."

He was surprised to see Wesker grin.

"It certainly will. Talking to a corpse would hold no gratification, now would it?"

"You bet. This conversation is the most ungratifying I had since yesterday."

It was a plastic conversation, he thought, shiny and bright and colorful on the outside and still rotten to the core. All both of them wanted was to see the other dead and yet here they were, talking and making fun of each other. Without giving the whole thing a second thought and yet they both knew, knew _so well_ they would end up shooting the other, hoping to see blood. And like a red, raw chunk of meat or the cleanest curtain hiding actors from the masses on stage, the rage would open him up to the world. And they would approach him, like vultures feasting on his flesh and the man he so leisurely talked to would be the first to chow.

"So, what happened?", Chris forced himself to say calmly, "Fill me in. Last thing I remember is you being incredibly pissed off at two rockets about to crash you. Or maybe, since you just confirmed I haven't completely lost it, it is you insulting me before getting caught in an explosion I remember."

Wesker unsheathed one of his knifes in a fluid motion. Adrenaline burst through Chris' veins shockingly sudden and in a reflex motion he took his gun once more, aimed and-

The knife cut through the once-human flesh easily as it got stuck in the creature's brain. And in the following seconds it was impossible to imagine the woman's forehead without a blade piercing it. The force of the throw had enforced a dent into the skull and the zombie's whimpering sounds soon ceased. Such a bloodless, clean kill, Chris realized, such _peace_.

Wesker disappeared for a second to get his knife and when he showed up again, he calmly pushed down the gun's barrel so it was no longer pointing at his face.

"What could you possibly do to me that surpasses a volcano and two rocket launchers?", he asked and sounded as concerned as a piece of stone.

Chris did not have a witty retort this time.

They were back in the game, it seemed.

* * *

_And one and two and three... what there was will never be._

She smiled and ran a hand through her hair. It was sticky with blood.

I must be seeing things, she thought to herself and repeated it over and over again, seeing what there will never be.

Her skin was itching and the urge to scratch was just so _strong._ But the more she scratched, the more it hurt and bled and _came off_.

_And four and six and eight... and all these things I left unsaid._

But she was blind to the world and the smell and the words they said every time they came around to gloat and stare. She smiled and all was well. Heaven was so close now.

Maybe if she watched the fires more closely, the flames licking on the bars of her prison, maybe she would see what was left to do... But they were burning brighter than the sun in her dreams, too bright not to kill you right away. And they would come closer, only to retreat after a while. It became apparent just how much longer they stayed when she looked away.

_And thirteen, fourteen, fifteen... all the pictures now unseen._

The horrid taste in her mouth spiked the nausea again. It shouldn't be blood. It couldn't be.

"Yet it _is_", she said quietly and chuckled, "So why are you crying, girl?"

She never choked on her tears.

* * *

The train station was desolated. It didn't matter, Chris noted, since the train would never arrive. His stomach turned at the thought. Waiting for help to come.

Bodies were piled up all over the place, orderly arranged in heaps. sliced into bite-sized pieces.

Maybe, Chris realized, you had to be crazy to endure things like these. Maybe you had to grow accustomed to it and joke around not to break down crying or vomiting until there was nothing left of you.

This was not the first time he thought about the matter like that. It was easier in the long run.

He shot a glance at Wesker, always ready to dodge a knife. It wasn't that much of a surprise to see the man completely unimpressed by the horrors around him. Both of them knew he had done and seen worse than that.

A butcher knife sticking in a dislodged limb was surely nothing new.

Chris wondered if decapitating Wesker would finally do the trick. With a little twist of the knife, a clean cut with a razor edge... could it be that easy? It was tempting; definitely worth a try.

"It is not worth the effort."

Casual words, deformed into a reminder.

Chris did not feel like replying. He was not good at lying and even worse at threatening somebody who had basically just read his mind.

He followed Wesker over to the other side of the rail tracks.

"How did you even know?"

"People smarter than you have tried to kill me. I can sense the minor threat you pose."

An answer as clear as the day and again so very hateful.

Chris jumped onto the platform.

"_Sense_? What, are you some kind of hippie now? Picking up bad vibes and all that?"

Normally, people were easy to annoy with these things, but it was a strange day, a stranger place and the strangest person to talk to.

Wesker actually bothered to turn around, amusement and malice practically shining in his lifeless eyes.

"A ludicrous ability, is it not? Especially if you find yourself in a dark facility _searching for someone_", he said and turned to face the door.

It was ridiculous how right he was.

"Um.. yeah. Now that you mention it", Chris said and the anger he felt was almost strong enough to end the facade once and for all. But he was not yet ready to let that happen.

The mercenaries had been too much for him to handle alone, which forced him to rely on whoever was there to kill them and not kill him. Which happened to be his life-long nemesis.

It could've been worse.

And with Wesker's revelation of a sixth sense, a question burned itself into his mind. The urge to ask was stronger than any reasonability.

"How did you not use that when we were fighting you in the hangar? You should've been able to see in the dark even better than us and with that magic function you got, it should've been ridiculously easy to just... I don't know. Crunch us."

The force that Wesker used to kick in the door into the main building was definitely uncalled for.

"What is your point? The fact you are not dying by my hands today does not change the fact I tried to get rid of you in the past", he answered icily, "I simply did not have this sense at my exposal at the time. Consider yourself lucky."

The question still lingered in the back of Chris' mind, dying to be asked.

Wesker looked at him with a blank expression.

"She is here", he said.

It took Chris a few seconds to process the information.

"Jill?", he asked and felt dumb a second later.

"I would not inform you if it was only for a random female."

"You wouldn't inform me about anyone", Chris growled suspiciously.

Wesker answered by walking down the corridor, casually stepping over the door he had just thrown out of its angles with one hand. He would not explain himself to anyone, at any time- that was no surprise.

"Believe it or nor, that does not make any difference."

"When has believing you ever caused anything positive?"

The knife was pressed into his throat as soon as he finished his sentence.

Wesker looked calm, even with a weapon in his hand and ready to use it for a quick kill.

"Do not try my patience", he said and let the blade cut into the flesh just a tiny, tiny bit, "If you insist on this infantile charade, I will detach your vital organs one by one, which would cause you to be drained of blood and not even count as murder."

The worst thing about a killing machine like him were his eyes, reflecting the simplicity of the task he described. In this moment it first occurred to Chris that his enemy was back to serious business. It wasn't so much a quest for earth subjugation that drove this madman; it was _work_ for him once more.

Chris felt as though he saw Wesker for the first time; the changes were no improvement, though. He would prefer fighting a delusional monster than this more dangerous version of a surgeon.

"Is that how you _disposed_ of Sheva, too?", he managed to ask.

"The woman who was with you in Africa? So she even had a name, how fascinating. Whatever the case, I would've killed her if I had gotten the chance", Wesker replied.

He was definitely no man not to credit himself with a death; Chris hoped he was not naive to believe him.

Sheva was still a sensitive subject, it constantly reminded him of how little he could actually do to protect the ones he cared for. If a similar thing ever happened to his sister, he would never be able to forgive himself. And Jill... was not exactly a different matter.

"So you-"

"Unfortunately, I do not have any more time to chat", Wesker hissed and removed the knife, "You were too much of a nuisance already."

And again he let Chris live, almost unscathed. It was an unfamiliar situation and unprecedented as well.

But as he moved down the corridor into a large hall that seemed to be cut right from his nightmares, he wondered if it had been indeed a good thing to go in here.

There were tanks scattered all over the place, filled with a translucent liquid that slowly made its way across the tiles. Inside of the tanks were... people. Or rather, the gruesome remains of something that might or might not have been people once. In fact, they looked even worse than the meat piles on the platform.

Chris mentally threw up right next to the man whose eyes had been sewn onto the backs of his hands. In reality he could not even stop walking, he was too numb to even think about the horror it should inflict on him.

Claire had always asked him to watch one of these obscene torture movies with her. The umpteenth time she had begged him he had complied. Both of them had not handled it well; the protagonists had ended up in situations both of them knew way too well. The night had ended up with Claire leaving the room. Chris, however, had been sitting in the living room, staring at the TV screen. It had felt like having a hole in his chest and it kept clawing at him a few days after that.

The feeling returned in this very moment and he felt like calling his sister. Of course that was a childish wish, but it were also the childish fears that remained the longest.

"How can you not...", he began quietly and startled himself with stopping.

Wesker did not turn to face him, he seemed rather busy with examining some of the corpses. As he stood up again he held a key in his hand; it did not seem to bother him in the least it was dripping with blood.

"How can I not _feel_, Chris? So now you envy my state. Casting aside all foolish sentiment to become even more efficient was something you despised up until now."

"I still do", Chris replied, "But right now I wish I didn't."

Wesker shook his head.

"One day you will regret it. And then you will come to me, crawling and begging for forgiveness like a goddamn dog", he said devoid of the hate his words held, "But not today."

Chris wanted to respond in a derogatory way, but he could not finish the sentence. He could see himself wanting to forget how to feel too easily right now, it was useless denying it.

He stepped over a woman that looked grossly beautiful with her hair painted red as roses and lips dark as blood. Her eyes had rolled inwards. For a moment, Chris wondered what the absurdly formed chunk of flesh on her cheek was, until he noticed it was a tongue, manually attached to her head.

He turned away.

"They won't disappear if you shut your eyes."

Wesker sounded amused, or maybe that was what Chris wanted to believe.  
"This is beyond crazy. Why would anyone do something like that?"

In the blank stare of the abominations sprawled out before him, devoid of pride and forced to learn humility.  
He tasted bile and wondered if it was a question worth answering.

"Progress", Wesker said calmly and threw one of the wallets he had examined onto its owner's opened skull, "It is about learning and _improving_ what there is to criticize."

"How can you even consider doing something like that? Is it really so hard to understand you're not better than them?" Chris heard the strain in his own voice, the suppressed hatred. It did not look well for his plan to stay calm.

"I did not say I approved of their doing. Most of the experiments performed here were of no particular scientifical use, they seem to serve no purpose besides inflicting pain on the subjects. I see no reason to do that. It is little more than a terrible waste of time and research material"; Wesker said.

Chris was not sure if that was any better, but it did not sound worse at least.

He looked down, only to see another lifeless face and a body he had accidentally stepped on. It was ridiculous how fast he jumped to the side.

He quickly composed himself, though.

"Where is she?", he asked.

"I am not here to help you. Ask someone else"; Wesker replied casually. He had moved to pick up a small purple vial and looked at it as though it was extremely interesting.

"Well, sadly-" Chris could not finish his sentence. He had intended to point out they were the only ones left in the building. It was a bad habit of the Redfields to always jump to conclusions.

The movement caught him completely by surprise.

A grey, giant figure moved behind the tanks, disappearing every once in awhile. It was watching, studying, learning; or so Chris thought as he watched it without attacking first.

_What if it is a person from the laboratory? It could be a kangaroo for all I know._

And then it jumped into view and something uncoiled itself in his stomach.

"What the hell-", he managed to say and then the monster charged at him.

It was a Tyrant, a slightly _improved_ version, it seemed. Its claws were no longer human, they consisted of metal. The creature spun them around like the blade of a chainsaw.

Its eyes looked pale and dead; its lips had been cut off so that it showed its toothy grin constantly. Like a pumpkin head on Halloween, Chris thought, somebody else carved the smile into its flesh.

"Well, isn't this a reason to celebrate", Wesker sneered. It was then he pushed the buttons on the side of an elevator he had apparently found a few moments ago. The doors were sliding open, he stepped inside and Chris knew that was not exactly a good sign.

He began running towards the elevator, focusing on his legs only, as if he could somehow hypnotize them into not failing him.

It was only a split second, but it changed everything; the simple mistake of casting a glance back at the monster. It threw him off balance and he fell.

As the elevator doors closed, Wesker did not exactly look apologetic. But he wouldn't have done anything to prevent Chris from entering either.

"I will give your regards to Jill", he said with an amused expression.

Then the elevator went up again.

* * *

Oh, how the sun burned on her skin, how greatly it provoked the itch. The chopping sounds made it hard to tell whether it was her beating heart or one of the others, the many others that had joined her over the years.

"What are you doing?", she asked, her voice as soft as silk and pleasant like a rainbow after a long rain. The woman did not reply, she moaned with lust and delight as she continued to swing the knife.

There had been dozens of them and now they were five, only five, merely five. And they were missing people each day.

In here, women did not mourn and men could not take revenge. In here it was hard to tell what gender a person had; their minds and bodies so beautifully reformed. Some of them claimed to believe in god.

She could not remember who that was. Was he in here, among them? So she began to pity god, lost as all of them.

And then she laughed at herself, at the misery and they were five, only five... merely four.

The chopping sounds had ceased, the butcher knife fallen to the ground.

Soon they were four, only three, merely two.

She chuckled.

"And now I am all alone."


	7. Your split second

**I apologize for taking ages to upload, but -voice cracks- my Internet was gone for almost a month. Pity me, weep with me, now I am alive again. (Or wave your arms like you just don't care- hey, it is your right not to care, whatchu gonna do)**

**Anyway, have the next chapter. I finished this story a couple weeks ago and boy, did it drain me of all my emotional strength.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

**VII: Your split second**

All the mutants and violated humans saw in the last of their minutes was a flash of black and then there was a crack, a terrible, terrible sound that told them how far their necks had been twisted. And as their spinal cords surrendered to the strain they would truly know power and finally _see_.

Wesker could play the game all day and never tire of it.

Every throat he slit and every last neck he snapped put him at ease. They were mindless creatures, his victims, the prey of his hunt and no matter who watched him now- safe and sound, hidden away in the darkest of shadows- could complain.

The rage had come without warning. Like an unwanted guest it had not bothered knocking or introducing itself, so it ran in his defenses and corrupted his pure, stained soul.  
Wesker snorted bitterly. It was all about his order to control himself and keep Chris alive- he had wondered what harder task there could ever exist. It was unnerving how much of a nuisance a single human could prove to be.

However, Redfield's life was reserved for someone other than him. Wesker had to redirect his anger and what better way was there?

Oh, how they whined, these spineless bastards and useless remains of humankind, as he ended them, one by one. It was what he was paid for right now and his duty was a serious matter. Wesker would not sell himself for money only; not anymore. His payment was different and yet so much more important than material gain or physical pleasure. He had to stay alive and find out who was the one claiming to own all of them.

A knife's blade would glisten so very beautifully in the lights, spread its reddened shone all across the area and every bit of the surroundings he took in with a glimpse of the eye.

Wesker was a machine and he knew it, a machine designed to kill and right now that satisfied him, if only for a split second. It didn't have to be any different, did it? It was a form of letting go, being a true self and no shell, no corpse forced to spin and spin and spin to look around and not be killed...

_Slice, chop, twist. A slash. A cut. A step backwards._

Mechanical movements, really, not worth mentioning... he moved swift as the wind and fierce as the flame and they _fell_, in a beautiful shower of blood and he did not smile at his masterpiece. There were better days; oh, troubled, troubled times.

_A spin and then a crack; a neck gone, a sinew severed, a heart removed._

Somewhere below his feet, below the concrete's safety, deep inside the earth, Redfield's heart was beating frantically.

Wesker hated every second of it and with each of the thousands of monsters he killed he wished it was a living creature, a human unworthy of another minute on the surface of the planet.

But it was forbidden... and he supposed obeying this single order would not hurt him. Until it did.

Every last fiber of his being lusted for this one kill, this last death which would finally still his famished mind. It could end one way or other, but it had to end soon.

But then again; Jill would not appreciate the delay.

The men were screaming, their skin had been pierced by their own tangled bones. Wesker felt his insides revolt against their God given nature. Blood had begun to pour from their eyes and he could no longer...

_Resistance is but a glimpse of strength. Giving in, letting go of all restraints is so much more relaxing. Occasionally._

Their bones shattered with the loudest cry.

* * *

Maybe it is his face that brings her back to life, or maybe it is the sounds of persons being _crushed_ like sticks and stones and broken bones. Jill would not remember; a memorable moment like this slipped her mind ever so easily.

"I have not expected you to come", she said and felt soft fear and relief tug on her heart. No more anger; all of it had been drowned away in butcher's work and fallen drops of blood not even worth mentioning.

Wesker did not move. His long, graceful strides had stopped right before her cell; but now he just stood perfectly still and watched; a moment of silence and sudden clarity.

A painting or a statue of a man; handsome, maybe, in an old-fashioned way, but naturally set in stone and never-changing. And in a brief moment of congruity she pitied him; forced to live until the end of time without _anyone_ to join him.

No matter how often he addressed the matter of others being chosen by his forsaken viruses and parasites, they both knew it would never work. And he would have it no other way; if others were able to climb up to the same step he resided on, he would not be more than them, nothing better than an aged, mental man with rather... unusual talents.

Jill laughed, clear as a bell and resonating in both of their minds as it was the sound of failure; the sound born of spite and malice and yet nothing more than _enjoyment_.

So weird, so weird, so very weird.

"What is it that stops you from insulting me for the condition I am in? ", she chuckled and stood up from the bank she had been sitting on. Two steps and she stood before the iron bars and grabbed a steady hold of them, never taking her eyes off Wesker. A wrong step and he would kill her; every second counted, every breath mattered.

"Is this retribution for your security breach?", he asked and his voice strained her ears, "Or rather a reward for a job well done?"

Even if he did not know how to read people, he always _knew_ about her. Maybe it was in his poisoned blood and frightful thoughts; he could see what she had done and force it into her head once more.

"A bit of both, maybe", Jill said and stretched out her hand from behind the bars. Her fingers hovered barely above his chest for the shortest of durations; he did not flinch as she pressed her hand to his suit just where his heart should be.

"It is still beating", she laughed, "Why wouldn't it?"

Wesker took a step back and the loathing in his eyes became apparent. He thought her weak-minded and human, unworthy of his attention. But again, god or man or monster that he was, he was professional. Cold, cold, cold as the brightest flame.

"Rest assured: this is as unpleasant for me as it is for you", he said and casually slid a dangerous-looking knife out of his sleeve, "So, if you would...?"

Jill dodged the blade a second later, falling on the ground heavily. The pain shot through her every muscle, her untrained body was not used to the strain anymore. How long had they kept her, as an unclaimed price, a reward for nothing and less at once?

She looked up just to see the bars of her cell dissipate. What an iconic picture, a metaphor for freedom and yet she felt nothing at all. Nowhere to go, nowhere to run.

"I advise you to focus on a more productive action than this", Wesker snarled and ripped the remains of the doors out with enough force to shatter them. The sound sent shivers down her spine.

_Slice, stab, chop. They are not there anymore, love, they are gone a second from now._

Jill struggled to get to her feet. A step. Another.  
And she was freed of the cage.

* * *

**Monster: **"Any thing or person of unnatural or excessive ugliness deformity wickedness or cruelty. The word connotes something wrong or evil; a monster is generally morally objectionable, physically or psychologically hideous, and/or a freak of nature. It can also be applied figuratively to a person with similar characteristics like a greedy person or a person who does horrible things.

One who inspires horror or disgust: _a monster of selfishness."_

* * *

Her weakness made Wesker cringe and his skin itch every time she stumbled, itched to just hurry over and make the abomination she was stop. But he restrained himself minute after minute; they wanted her alive and throbbing with bloodlust. So they needed a head underneath the guillotine, someone to watch and the one to pull the strings and make it fall until it hit flesh and carved a mark larger than life.

And when the blood spilled on her, the beautiful bystander, she would be laughing and make her choice, once and for all.

Wesker knew he could not be the one to help her decide; he was not who she wanted at her side. One day, maybe, on sunnier days and brighter evenings he would have regretted this turnout; maybe he had even craved the attention once, all of it and all of her.  
But where there had been affection there was nothing now, just a blinding display of indifference; bound by nothing more than necessity and obligation.

She would notice the mental scaffold too late.

"He is here, if that is what you were wondering." His voice was deep and cutting, a threat and a promise of madness at once. Oh, Wesker knew what he was. In their eyes and what was left of his; but who needed guilt and blame, silt to sink in and shame to live with?

"I wasn't", Jill replied and blatantly used the wall for support as she fell once more, "And why would I care? If you arrived first, there is no hope for me and him. No future without the presence of what has been _you_ a long time ago."

Wesker felt the knife spin in his gut as her words sank in, below the surface and beyond. Why would he care? Why would anyone?

"I have refrained from killing him up to this point."

"You could tell lies like you tell your usual words of spite and I would not even notice; you make me realize how dependent on you I really am at the moment and you _like_ it. Why make it worse?"

She waited a second too long for an answer.

"Is it because you can?", she continued and struggled to go after him, down the narrow hallway her prison had been; only hers, in a very long time, "Is it because you _want_?"

And the silence made her laugh, apparently, while his insides boiled with pent-up rage and just this last bit of control he did not want to let go of.

"But what would you want, the mightiest of gods and greatest of heroes?", she kept on asking and suddenly she grabbed hold of his motionless arm, his property, for support, "What would you...?"

For a second, their eyes met and the air ran cold with disgust, with disappointment and yet again memories, of the worst of times. Jill shook her head at him and let go whilst he snorted in disgust. It would always end like this.

"So why is he alive? And why are you?"

"They made me return", he answered curtly and the knife screeched forward, plunging deep into his flesh and suddenly he could not wait for it to move again, "As a token, maybe. A weapon; or rather a tool, one of the gears always moving. Albeit I doubt I will live up to their expectations. As for your dear friend... I must say, the Organization has suffered enormous losses the last weeks, they did not want to lose potential allies this soon."

Jill's eyes shifted from amused to blank for a second.

"He would not join you."

"He would", Wesker responded coldly, "For you, dear, he would."

* * *

Jill felt the blood on her hands as she let go of him, she could still taste it upon her lips and smell its metallic odor in every single second that flew by. Superstition, of course, his sleeves were clean and his whole attire unstained; but she knew what he had done, every last of his victims screamed at her in this very second. But who was she to complain? Her casualties began to wake her up at night, soon she would be like him, gone insane with whatever one did to cope with sentiment.

The mental image of reuniting with her friend, the best and one and only, killed her slowly. It was naive to believe, so very naive and every last of the visualized scurrilities would keep the others from becoming reality; but she could not stop her thoughts, always trailing back and making _sense_ of what should be nothing more than a bunch of wires, randomly entangled to be marveled at.

"I saw your masterpiece this week", Wesker drawled and his voice was a living insult, resounding endlessly inside her, "It was... stunning. I would not have thought you capable of such a deed, since it sparked even my disgust."

Jill felt her blood freeze and her protective shell dismantle under his stare, his knowing eyes. Why did he not see her as a piece of meat? Why did he not make it easy?

There was nothing of incentive to him, nothing she could use for her advantage.

"I have no idea what you are talking about", she said weakly and felt her legs give in to the weight of either her exhausted body or the guilt- it did not matter.

"Of course. I did not expect you to be able to recall the incident yet. You will, in time", he responded and it disgusted her how understanding it sounded.

But as she faced him once more, holding her smile firmly in place, he did not look patient or empathetic. Wesker was Wesker and he would not change that; there was murder written all over his grin. Or was he frowning? She could not tell anymore.

"What will happen to me?", she asked and the fear did not fuel her confidence.

"I am not authorized to elaborate."

"Then don't. Be blunt and insulting. Don't pretend you wouldn't enjoy that."

"They will not kill you", he said and Jill wondered if the emotion she heard was regret, "But you might know there are things worse than death."

The lights burned in her eyes and she felt painfully alive for a second. The sudden sensitivity of her skin provoked goose bumps tingling up her spine; the chilly air comforted her arms and bare neck as much as it hurt her bruises and cuts.

"I met them", she muttered, "The things worse than worst. Worse than you."

Wesker chuckled darkly.

"There are people out there beating me at my game", he said, "You will be praying to your petty god for my presence soon enough. The far I get beneath your skin, they will get to the very core of your being and tear it apart for fun."

As they passed a doorway into a sort of laboratory she squinted her eyes and stopped in her motion.

"You're scared."

Jill should have known better; but the words tumbled from her mouth and he had no choice but to hear their meaning, process and understand within the blink of an eye.

Lifted up by the throat she struggled for a single breath, a single beating of her heart before the dawn; just a glimpse at her killer and one at her friend on the other side.

Wesker's eyes gleamed and yet he did not twist his hand to make it stop, let it end, for all the years pushed to the edge; he stayed calm for a moment or two.

"Do not assume to comprehend the extent of their power. Loyalty may or may not save your life, but obedience certainly will. Although it may last for less than a split second, it surely-"

His eyes widened and Jill smiled.

The split second passed and he coughed up his own blood, spraying it all over their faces before his body convulsed and the grip loosened on her throat.

"A weakness, old friend. Your monologues may stroke your ego, but your surroundings may not be as fascinated", she whispered and practically fell backwards.

For a moment she had seen the silhouette behind him, barely visible due to swift movements unpredictable for human standards.

The strangely shaped claw had pierced Wesker's chest once more; a reunion between friends and maybe more than a revenge on the creator of all the evils in the world. Jill loved naivety, kept it close to her heart to make sure it would never leave her and make her _think_ about the possibility the root of all her pain was not a single person.

A tyrant killed another, just as she would have predicted and yet the sight left her bewildered.

Wesker's flesh had been spread unnaturally wide to allow the metallic fingers to protrude from his ribcage and his body seemed to take a while to take the sensations in.

The streams of red glistened in the bright light, streaking down what had been a living corpse before; Jill wanted to treasure the moment, never to lose it just to have proof gods were able to bleed out on a dirty floor like casual slaughter cattle silenced with a shot to the head. Amidst fountains of their own spilling life, brought down by the unrelenting saw with a mind of its own, they all would welter and watch with widened eyes as their savior came closer; knife and gun and death in hand.

Their eyes met and she had hoped to see a human again, just in the second before the end, but of course she did not. And she did not see the end either.

Wesker let no bit of emotion show, not even the pain he could have allowed himself easily, he simply urged his body forward in a quick motion.

The obscene sound of flesh on flesh, more than a physical contact, so much deeper, more intimate than lust; and then they separated, monster and murderer, saint and sinner.

Jill stared at the hole in the human body, the place where there should have been muscles and sinews and blood in the veins. Now she could see right through his disguise.

The tyrant's throat was cut and no one wept for the falling giant, the would-be-hero had he completed the task. Jill felt her clothes and skin soak with blood as it splashed onto her, but she could not care. It was too much at once, too much to see and process and her mind felt like a child's dream, so soft and warm and safe.

Wesker turned to her and he smiled, showing teeth and red upon white upon red, smiled right through the gory fantasy.

"The funny thing is...", he began and pressed a hand to his already healing chest, as he began to sway, "I was not even lying this time."

Jill realized how her knees gave in and her lungs never managed to hold that breath she wanted to keep inside her forever.

She fell first, not on her knees, merely to the side so that the metallic ground soothed her skin with the cold at the bitter end.

Wesker took his time, wiped his knife's blade on his suit and lowered himself to the ground slowly and gracefully; he sat with his back against the wall, casually spitting blood to the side.

"How did they get you?", he asked and started removing pieces of shrapnel from the bloody mess that he had turned himself into; pieces of tyrant-tissue and a monster's meat.

Jill stared at him, the walking mockery of life, and even though she remained unscathed, she felt more wounded than him, more exposed.

"What were their promises? Eternal life? Unlimited power? _Peace_?", he asked and chuckled at the thought.

She thought of the promises they had made, the life she had seen in their proposals. And for a moment she felt the urge to deny everything; but then again, who was he to know the truth?

"All of them", she replied and avoided his eyes as though she felt ashamed at the revelation.

And he believed her because he was vain. Because he believed to know she was like him. It was pitiful to watch.

"Lies are a curious invention of humankind; designed to protect and yet... the fact one resided to utilize them as a makeshift cover exposes a weakness worse than truth, does it not?", he chuckled and she realized how easy he played her.

Wesker looked her straight in the eye and she felt her whole world crumble and decay of fear.

Her mouth was dry and her palms sweaty as she clenched her fists, desperately waiting for another word as the seconds passed and it was her turn to fill the silence with words cutting even deeper.

"Does it? You tell me. A moment from now you will be gone and I will walk out into a brand new life with no worries or issues to be solved- you, king of cowards, should give an answer to your own question", she said and waited for an impact, an onslaught of violence breaking her bones.

Wesker did not move and she realized his wound affected him more than he showed; it was all about bluffing, believing in the charade of strength and wisdom while they were both fools caught in the long game.

Jill struggled to her feet and stumbled over to his wall, kneeling down before him.

He did not stop her as she took his knife and firmly placed it against his neck, the blade barely grazing the pale skin. Each heartbeat forced it against the metal, leaving a scratch and a stain, nothing more than a droplet of blood.  
"I could end it right here." She stated the obvious as bluntly as she could, "Slit your throat and move on."

Wesker was calm and unfazed by the threat; he shrugged.

"I am what keeps you alive", he said and grinned at her all off a sudden, chuckling with genuine amusement, "Oh Jill, you are so amazingly slow in your deductions, the amount of patience necessary to talk to you is still intriguing me."

The knife cut in a little bit farther.

"Off with my head and you and your _lover_ are dead in a heartbeat. They keep you for me, both of you. So that my loyalty is assured I may not kill you for a while... so why condemn the two of you if all you have to do is wait?", he asked and slowly forced the knife away from his throat; was it leather that touched her skin? Gloves or human hands? Jill felt her pupils dilate and feared the mechanical movement, the ever turning gears.

"There is nothing you can do", he said and she knew he enjoyed the thought, this psychological terror he inflicted, "So save your petty life by sparing mine."

And it worked. He had won, even facing death and agony, won once again and she was helpless, defenseless and had to admit he was right in the end.

"He will come for me. And you will get what you deserve", she replied quietly and with enough false hope to make the taste bitter and spoiled.

Wesker sneered and his colorless eyes still haunted her with their arrogance.

"Is that what makes you sleep at night?", he asked and chuckled.

"No-"

"Yes it is. And yes you do believe in it. But at the end of the tunnel there will be no light, there will be no savior when I am gone. Your world, your society is as rotten as the single place waiting for you, corrupt and oh-so-bad-to-the-bone", he spat and the truth was a slap in the face.

Jill went silent and watched with horror as his story unfolded.

"They will leave you in the gutter after they have successfully used all you had in body and mind, a ragdoll, a puppet in their spider's web and you will _know_ that your optimistic sunshine-loving brightly-colored dream is as fake as the taste of _loving _words on your tongue."

The madness was not as far from her as she had believed. It edged closer with every word he said and it poisoned her, infected her and made her young again, to set the world on fire.

"And once your proclaimed devil dances on your grave you will see how ungrateful your treatment was, how deeply inclined they bowed for you before they raised the pitchforks to escort you to the gallows pole", he continued and sneered once more, "And why? Because of _love_, maybe, or because they were obliged by fate."

_I could kiss the devil that tempted him to do it. Yes, I could kiss-him-even wert thou that devil._

* * *

The knife wrenched deeper in his gut as she grabbed his chin and forced his head backwards for a moment, pressing the fingers of her other hand to his bloodied chest before lifting them up to his face.

Wesker froze as she acted with an urgency he had not expected for once.

She left a bloody stain on his cheek, a mark to remember.

"So human", Jill said, "You are so fucking human it makes me retch."

His vision flickered due to the blood loss and he knew he would not be able to defend himself against her _and _Chris; if they turned up together he would go down once more. Wesker was not afraid, it was simply a component he had to consider to come up with a plan.

The desire to ignore his orders and kill his two _old friends_ was overwhelming, but he knew the Organization waited for a mistake like that; the incentive of disobedience was naturally strong, they had to be sure to whom he swore allegiance in the end.

Wesker produced a choked sound in his throat and faked a tremor running through his body- he hated to admit it was easier than expected. The familiar sensation of death creeping near filled him, although it was nothing but a memory.

Jill watched with curiosity as he fell silent and pulled away at last.

In her eyes he was no threat anymore; so both of them would live another day, to meet and kill again.

Wesker hated to have to pretend his weakness, the humiliation stung in his brain and a weaker man might have been offended enough to act.

She left him to die a moment later.

* * *

Everything else was a blur.

Jill remembered stumbling down a corridor, avoiding rooms too dark to see a thing and in the end... she had come across a staircase. Descending into the basement she had walked across a field of corpses; the horrors of death meaning less than ever. Too gruesome a time rendered her incapable of feeling disgust anymore, to a horrible extent that made her laugh at the dead bodies instead of weeping over the loss; every torn limb amused her because any other behavior would damage her brain beyond repair.

Humanity was a selfish trait, after all.

And then there was Chris, appearing from out of nowhere, the knight in shining armor she had waited for for so long. Her heart might be heavy, her spirits high, but he did not care, as he had never cared about such nuisances before.

He looked back when she didn't.

What a shame, what a shame, what a shame; she was on a mission to save her world.

So what if that did not include him anymore?


End file.
